Larry and Stretch 6

by Marshall Grover

  Outside the county law office in the heart of town, Jennings wearily dismissed the volunteers. Then, as he dismounted and climbed the steps to the office porch, he gestured towards the opposite sidewalk and gloomily informed his deputies, “Here they come.”

  “Aw, hell,” groaned Hutton. “Are they gonna bend our ears again?”

  “The hell with ’em,” scowled Lodge.

  “Nobody whines louder,” sighed the sheriff, “than a gambler that gets robbed.”

  They slouched into the office. Jennings sank into the chair behind his desk, removed his Stetson and sat hunched, his chin propped in his hands, his gray hair straggling over his wrinkled forehead, his hazy blue eyes fastened on the street doorway. Hutton sprawled full length on the old couch. Lodge drew up two chairs, placed his backside on one, lifted his boots to the other.

  The owners of Tyson City’s three largest gambling houses came barging in. To the fore was Ace Kerry, proprietor of the Lucky Lil Saloon, lean, lank-haired, sharp-featured and flashily garbed in Prince Albert coat, fancy vest and striped gray pants. Next came Karl Bourne, of the Bourne Palace, heavyset and fortyish, gray-eyed and belligerent, his thick frame garbed in a broadcloth suit that seemed a size too small for him. The third, Miley Fennister, of the Silver Spade, paused just inside the doorway and stood eyeing Jennings soberly. He was the eldest of the trio, silvery-haired and ruddy-complexioned, slight of build, with sensitive features and sad brown eyes that seemed too large for his thin face. He was the first to speak, and his tone was mild, albeit a mite reproachful.

  “No luck, Boyd?”

  Between his teeth, Jennings said, “Nothing, Miley. Nothing at all.”

  “Well, damn it all,” scowled Kerry, “how far did you trail ’em?”

  “You must’ve found tracks after sunup yesterday morning,” frowned Bourne.

  “Be reasonable, boys,” sighed Jennings. “Think back. A hefty wind hit Tyson City around midnight Saturday and blew hard till sunup.”

  “Worse than a strong wind,” mumbled Hutton. His Stetson covered his face. He didn’t have the strength, it seemed, to lift it and look at the angry visitors. “Damn near a tornado.”

  “It wasn’t no tornado, Stew,” growled Lodge. He glowered challengingly at the saloonkeepers. “But it was strong enough to blow out every hoof-print hereabouts.”

  “They’ll get clear away?” challenged Bourne. “Hell, Boyd ...!”

  “What d’you want from me?” frowned Jennings. “I can’t work miracles, Karl. We organized a posse inside a quarter-hour of the robberies, but the damage was done already. The wind was sweeping this whole county. There hasn’t been any rain in a long time, and that means dust. Tracks show clear in dust—but not when that dust scatters from a high wind.”

  “You’ll telegraph Jannisburg, Eureka Gulch, Thane City—all the other towns in this section?” prodded Fennister.

  “That’s already been taken care of, Miley,” said Jennings. He grimaced, stared hard at the Silver Spade boss. “Miley—I’m damn sorry about Sam. It’s bad enough they grabbed your Saturday night take, but, killing your brother—”

  “Sam will be avenged,” muttered Fennister. “I feel it in my bones.”

  “Your bones are apt to double-cross you,” countered Kerry, “If you’re counting on Jennings and his half-awake sidekicks.”

  “Now look, Kerry ...!” began Lodge.

  “Easy—easy …” Jennings wearily raised a hand. “Let’s not lose our tempers.”

  Chapter Two

  Talk About a Tinhorn

  The atmosphere in the law office was thick with tension, thanks to the white-hot fury of Ace Kerry. He was pallid and trembling, as he advanced to Jennings’ desk.

  “They’ve likely quit the county by now,” he breathed. “They could be headed for the Nevada border for all you know, and what’re you doing about it? You sit here on your fat butt and ...!”

  “That’s all, Kerry.” Jennings spoke quietly, but firmly. “I’m making allowances for you. How much did you say they took you for? Sixty-five hundred? That’s a lot of money. Naturally, you’re sore. But don’t prod me too hard, Kerry. I’ve done everything any lawman could do. Can I help it if the breaks were against us?”

  “Kerry—so help me ...!” Lodge began a fervent threat, but Jennings cut him short.

  “Put a rein on your temper, Rocky. One hothead is too many.” He stared at Kerry again. “You all suffered heavy losses. They got five thousand from Karl—better than six thousand from Miley. And I reckon Miley ought to holler louder than you. As well as losing his night’s profits, he lost his brother. It’s a rough situation all round, Kerry, but cussing each other isn’t gonna improve it any.”

  Kerry made an effort to regain control of himself, but his bitterness didn’t abate.

  “You made it easy for ’em, Jennings,” he accused.

  “Kerry,” said Jennings, “you’d better make that clearer.”

  “You know damn well what I mean,” growled Kerry. “You and your blasted curfew ...!”

  “I imposed that curfew with the sanction of the town council,” Jennings reminded him. “We figured it was necessary, and we still do. There were too many fights, Kerry. Too many brawls, gunfights and petty thefts in the early morning. With every saloon staying open all night, Tyson City was a wide-open hell-town. Decent folks couldn’t sleep for the noise. One-thirty a.m. is mighty reasonable I reckon.”

  “Oh, sure!” sneered Kerry. “We all have to close up at one-thirty—and those lousy killers knew it! You made it easy for ’em. Saturday night is our big night, and the banks are shut Sunday.”

  “I guess we all know what Ace means,” frowned Bourne. “Between one-thirty and two o’clock of a Sunday morning, every Tyson City gambling house has shut up and the owners are all doing the same damn thing. Tallying the night’s take, counting it into their safes. You hit any saloon after curfew-time Sunday morning, and you’ll find a lot of loose cash lying around.”

  “They knew just when to hit us,” muttered Kerry. “First me, then the Silver Spade, and then Karl’s place. One, two, three. Just like that!” He snapped his fingers, glared at Jennings. “And they make a clean getaway!”

  “I don’t know if we could expect any more of Boyd,” frowned Fennister. “With all horse-tracks blown out in the wind, how could he trail them? Well ...” He nodded moodily to the sheriff, “thanks for trying, Boyd.”

  “As far as I’m concerned,” said Jennings, “this investigation has only just begun. I’m not through yet, but I’m flesh and blood, boys. Not a machine. Unless I get some sleep …”

  “Pardon us,” jeered Kerry, “for keeping you awake.” Kerry hankered to say a lot more but, diplomatically, Fennister and Bourne took his arms and ushered him outside. Jennings rose up, trudged to the street-door and shoved it shut, then returned to his desk and resumed his chair. His head sank to the desktop, cradled in his arms. Hutton was snoring already. Lodge slumped lower in his chair, closed his eyes.

  Two hours later, the tall strangers idled their mounts into Main Street from the north end. They had only three blocks to traverse before locating the Circle D livery stable and, in that short journey, they were able to inspect the greater part of the big town, and to form their opinion. Tyson City certainly was growing, becoming prosperous from two tried-and-true industries—cattle and gambling. In this respect, its progress followed the pattern of other cow towns that had become part of the railroad route. The pleasure-seekers and high-stake gamblers could now commute more frequently, and faster.

  “Right lively-lookin’ burg,” Stretch commented.

  “Lively enough,” nodded Larry. “And we’ve been on the drift quite a few weeks—so what d’you say we hang around a spell?”

  “Okay by me,” shrugged Stretch. He rose in his stirrups, squinted ahead and pointed. “There’s the Circle D.”

  A skinny, elderly man in overalls was perched on a box by the barn entrance, whittling, giving the strangers an intent
once-over.

  “You’ll be Wes Deckart?” Larry asked.

  “That’s me,” nodded the livery proprietor. He got to his feet, discarded his jack knife. “How come you’re leadin’ three of my animals? That’s my brand.”

  The drifters dismounted, rolled and lit cigarettes. Slowly and patiently, Larry explained the circumstances that had caused their temporary acquisition of Deckart’s horses, beginning with their foiling of the ambush and ending with Gil Briskin’s demise in Doc Woodrow’s surgery. Deckart hung on his every word, and mouthed a shocked, one-word comment.

  “Hell!”

  Larry squinted pensively along the busy main stem, and asked, “Who were those two sidewinders? All we know is their initials—J.G. and B.G.”

  “The Grieves brothers rented the two sorrels from me Saturday night,” Deckart told him. “Jim and Burt. Couple real rough hombres. Yeah.” He nodded vehemently. “Bad medicine.”

  “And Briskin rented the bay?” prodded Larry.

  “Like hell he did,” scowled Deckart. “That sassy tinhorn must’ve helped hisself.”

  “When?” demanded Larry.

  “Let me think on that,” begged Deckart. He thought about it a moment. Then, “Reckon it had to be some time after midnight Saturday. Bay was in its stall around midnight. I seen it then. Didn’t know it was gone till I woke up Sunday mornin’. And that was around eight-thirty.” He eyed Larry expectantly. “You sure ask a heap of questions.”

  “Ol’ Larry,” grinned Stretch, “was born curious.”

  “Don’t believe I caught your names,” said Deckart.

  “Valentine,” said Larry.

  “Emerson,” said Stretch.

  “Holy jumpin’ Lulu!” said Deckart. “You’re them crazy Texans I been hearin’ about!”

  The Texans traded glances. Stretch chuckled philosophically and remarked, “Crazy, he says.”

  “N-n-no offence,” Deckart hastened to assure them.

  “Forget it,” frowned Larry. “Where do we find the sheriff?”

  “Well—in his office, I reckon,” muttered Deckart. He jerked a thumb. “Just keep driftin’ downtown a ways.”

  Larry transferred the coiled gunbelts of the dead brothers to his own saddle horn. As he remounted, he drawled another query. “You got any notion why the Grieves boys wanted to kill Briskin?”

  “Don’t know any special reason,” said Deckart. “Like I told you, them Grieves jaspers was bad medicine—mean as they come.”

  “What about Briskin?” prodded Larry.

  “Him?” Deckart grimaced. “Shucks, he wasn’t much better’n they was. Cardsharpin’ tinhorn. The kind I wouldn’t trust any further’n I could spit. Never did a lick of honest work in his whole no-good life is my guess. Smooth-talker, you know? A smart-aleck dude with a marked deck in his pocket. Likely he got exactly what was comin’ to him.”

  They were hardly out of sight before Deckart was scuttling away to spread the word of their arrival. His first call was on Leon Kingsmill, editor of the town’s only newspaper, and a man almost as inquisitive as Deckart himself. Within ten minutes, a third of the locals walking Main Street were excitedly discussing the coming of the Lone Star Hellions.

  The Texans’ low opinion of lawmen in general wasn’t changed by the tableau that met their eyes when, without deigning to knock, they opened the street-door and ambled into the sheriff’s office. All three lawmen were sound asleep. Stretch looked at Larry, and commented, “Real lively bunch of lawmen hereabouts.”

  “Overworked, I bet,” sneered Larry. “All wore out from their labors.”

  One by one, the badge-toters returned to consciousness. They hadn’t much choice. Stretch had located Stew Hutton’s harmonica and was rendering “The Eyes of Texas” with gusto. The first sight that met Lodge’s eyes—when he opened them—was Larry Valentine lighting a Long 9 cigar, undoubtedly purloined from Lodge’s own vest pocket. Jennings aroused at the same time, to blink incredulously. The impassive Larry had opened a drawer of the desk and helped himself to the sheriff’s private bottle.

  Hutton sat up, cursing luridly. Lodge simmered. Jennings gaped in disbelief, as Stretch discarded the harmonica, opened the file cabinet and began checking through the ‘Wanted’ dodgers. Larry perched on a corner of the desk, fed himself a stiff shot from the bottle, tossed it deftly to his lean partner, who caught it and followed his example. “Who ...?” began Jennings.

  “How in blazes ...?” gasped Hutton.

  “What the hell ...?” scowled Lodge.

  “You hombres,” drawled Larry, “sounded better when you were asleep.”

  “Looked better, too,” offered Stretch, without raising his eyes from the ‘Wanted’ file. “Hey, runt, I can’t find their ugly faces in here.”

  “Keep lookin’,” grunted Larry.

  “Who the hell are you?” demanded Jennings. “What’s the idea of busting in here and ...?”

  “We didn’t bust,” Stretch cheerfully contradicted. “Door wasn’t locked.”

  “The names,” said Larry, “are Valentine and Emerson.” He dumped the gunbelts on the desk, blew cigar-smoke into Jennings’ face. “We took this hardware off a couple trigger-happy galoots name of Grieves. It’s quite a story—and maybe you ain’t interested.”

  “I’m interested.” Jennings’ whole attitude had changed abruptly. He was alert now and in full control of himself. To the still-indignant deputies, he said, “No reason why all of us have to lose our sleep. You boys go inside.” He nodded to the cellblock entrance. “Find yourselves a couple soft bunks. I’ll rouse you around noon.”

  Reluctantly, and with muttered curses, the deputies trudged into the cellblock. Jennings found a cigar, got it working. Then, “We had quite a ruckus in Tyson City, early Sunday morning,” he told Larry. “We’ve been hunting all over for a passel of killers that robbed three gambling houses almost at the same time—and that didn’t leave any time for sleeping. Now ...” He folded his arms, stared thoughtfully at the coiled gunbelts, “… what’s the score on the Grieves boys?”

  “They’re planted by now,” Larry bluntly informed him.

  “In the Childress boot hill,” offered Stretch.

  “Emerson,” said Jennings, “come away from my files. You won’t find a dodger on the Grieves brothers in there.”

  “Thought sure I would,” shrugged Stretch.

  “They acted like a couple professional gunslicks,” explained Larry.

  “Hardcases,” grunted Jennings. “The worst kind. But they weren’t on record here. All right, Valentine. Where were they when you ran into ’em—and how come you tangled?”

  “One of ’em,” said Larry, “was gun-whippin’ a hombre called Gil Briskin. I didn’t take kindly to that—and they didn’t take kindly to us hornin’ in.”

  “So they went to shootin’,” drawled Stretch, “and ended up dead. Permanent.”

  “Them or me,” said Larry. “Self-defense.”

  “I’ll go along with that,” shrugged Jennings. “But you can be thankful I know your reputation. If I thought you’d drygulched Jim and Burt Grieves, you’d be under arrest—muy pronto.”

  “He don’t seem interested,” observed Stretch, “in poor ol’ Gil.”

  “All right, all right.” Jennings gestured impatiently. “What about Briskin?”

  “Dead,” said Larry. “Childress sawbones couldn’t help him. I guess his head was stove in bad.”

  “Well,” frowned Jennings, “good riddance.”

  “That how you felt about Briskin?” challenged Larry.

  “When you’ve worn a badge as long as I have,” growled Jennings, “you learn to call a spade a spade. Briskin was no good. A cheap, flashy cardsharp that never toted a gun. Hell, if he’d gone armed, some sore loser would’ve called him out years ago.”

  “Any kin in this town?” asked Larry.

  “Nope.” Jennings shook his head. “He was a loner.”

  “We returned the horses to the Circle D livery,�
� Larry reported. “Anything else you want to know?”

  “That,” frowned Jennings, “is putting it mild.”

  “All right,” said Larry. “What else?”

  “For a starter,” said Jennings, “is this all you found on them?”

  “Just their hardware and tobacco and stuff,” Larry told him, “and enough cash to pay for their buryin’.”

  “No big dinero?” demanded Jennings.

  “No big dinero,” said Larry.

  “Well ...” Jennings rubbed at his jaw, stared pensively at the holstered .45s, “… did it look like they’d been digging? Could they have cached a bundle before you happened along?”

  “We weren’t interested in what they were doin’ before they jumped Briskin,” growled Larry.

  “I’m wondering,” Jennings explained, “if they could’ve been mixed up in the robberies. When did it happen?”

  “Yesterday mornin’,” said Larry.

  “Whereabouts?” prodded Jennings.

  “Near as I can recall,” said Larry, “about halfway between Childress and the county line.”

  “They could’ve gotten that far,” mused Jennings, “and we wouldn’t have cut sign of ’em.” He shook his head perplexedly. “It still doesn’t add up. The Grieves’ wouldn’t stop at armed robbery and murder—but Briskin was a different proposition. He didn’t have the gizzard for it. Card-sharping was his specialty.”

  “I’ve told you everything we know,” drawled Larry. “From here on, it’s your problem.”

  “Sure, sure.” Jennings nodded moodily. “Well—uh—do you plan on staying in Tyson City?”