Larry and Stretch 6

by Marshall Grover

  In urgent haste, he grabbed Stretch by his pants-belt and hauled him across to the dead pinto. Margo greeted him with a warning.

  “We haven’t enough cover, Larry! They’re directly above us!”

  “And we’ll be worse off,” he scowled, “wide open for a bullet—if we try to make a run for it.”

  “Nothing behind us except that sheer drop,” she panted. “Larry—what can we do?”

  He didn’t answer right away. Crouched on one knee, he raised his rifle again, sighted on the peaks atop the cliff and got off two more shots. Then, “We’ll have to hustle clear across the trail,” he decided, “and get close to the cliff-face. Nothin’ else I can think of, except ...” He stopped talking abruptly, his eyes fastening on the peaks above. “Damn their mangy innards!”

  “What is it?” she demanded.

  “There’s a rock movin’ up there,” he breathed.

  “Well—what ...?” She blinked uncomprehendingly.

  “They only have to shove one rock loose,” he growled. “That’s all it takes. That one rock’ll start a whole blame landslide!”

  “You mean,” she panted, “we’ll be—buried alive?”

  “Not if I can help it.” He unholstered his Colt, placed it in her hand. “Use this.”

  “But—I can’t ...!”

  “Wouldn’t expect you to score on ’em, Margo. Just use it. Keep triggerin’ slugs up there till the cylinder’s empty. You have to cover for me.”

  “Where are you going?”

  “Back to the far edge of the trail—to take a look down that long drop. It might be our only chance.”

  “But ...!”

  “They figure they got us where they want us. If we break cover and run for it, they pick us off easy. If we stay put, there’ll be a couple tons of rock on top of us inside a couple minutes. Do as I tell you. Go on shootin’.” He rolled over and, on hands and knees, crawled to the extreme edge of the drop. The Colt started booming and one of the rifles was still crackling. A 44.40 slug burned his left boot, but he didn’t budge. He was staring downwards, taking note of the narrow ledge some eight feet below him. It wasn’t much. Just a shelf barely big enough to hold three bodies. He glanced backwards and upwards. The boulder was teetering outwards now. At any moment, it would be shoved free—to roll—to dislodge other boulders. This section of the trail would be piled high with rock and rubble and the overflow would tumble into the ravine.

  “Come over here!” he called to her. “Come fast!”

  She retreated to join him. He gestured to the ledge below.

  “Think you could reach it?”

  “If I can’t ...’’ she began.

  “You’ll fall a long way,” he finished. “Go on. Swing over. I’ll hold your wrists.”

  She returned his six-gun. He holstered it, then took her hands. She swung over the edge. Her legs dangled a moment and her face was upraised to his. He tried to grin reassuringly, but was incapable of it. Sprawled flat on his belly, he slowly thrust his arms down to their full length, still clutching her wrists. A bullet plowed into the ground inches from his head, spattering grit into his face. He told her, between clenched teeth, “The shelf is only a couple feet below you. When you drop, shove yourself inward. Ready? Now!”

  He released his grip, stared downwards with his pulse racing. She fell cleanly, landed with her legs bent and her torso slanting towards the cliff-wall, and he didn’t wait to see any more. Back to the dead horse he hurried. The shooting had ceased, and the reason was obvious. A rumbling above told him the ambushers had succeeded in loosening the rock. It was in motion now, and could move in only one direction. Downwards—ail the way. He grasped Stretch by his armpits, hauled him to the side of the trail and called down to the girl.

  “Here comes Stretch. I’ll try to drop him feet-first.”

  “Hurry!” she called.

  He shoved Stretch off the edge and, for a long moment, held him at arm’s length. The strain on his muscles started his whole torso aching. He gave thanks for his partner’s generous height. As near as he could judge, Stretch’s boots were dangling less than a foot above the shelf. He let go, shoved himself forward and stared down. Stretch was sprawled on the extreme edge of the shelf, but being pulled inwards. Margo was grasping the buckle of his gunbelt and the collar of his shirt.

  He threw one last glance upwards. The peaks were completely obscured now. All he could see was the billowing dust and the rolling rocks. More than a dozen big boulders were tumbling towards him—halfway down the slant already. He rolled over, clamped his arms to the edge of the trail and lowered himself.

  “Keep coming, Larry!” he heard her cry.

  He let his arms straighten and, for what seemed an eternity, hung by his hands. When he let go, he waited another eternity for the feel of his boots on the surface of the ledge. Then, hastily, he shoved his weight inwards.

  He was huddled atop Stretch, who was sprawled full-length on his back, one arm dangling over the ledge. Margo was squatting awkwardly, cross-legged, one hand still clutching the buckle of Stretch’s cartridge belt.

  “If—if this ledge can’t hold our weight ...” she mumbled.

  “Never mind the ‘ifs’.” Larry flashed her a grin. “We’re doin’ fine—so far.”

  The cliff-face seemed to tremble. By now, he realized, the full force of the avalanche was striking the trail above. Rock and rubble and dirt, falling hard and fast—piling up.

  In a matter of minutes, there’d be an overflow, more rock spilling off the trail and pitching into the chasm. And, if any of those boulders struck this ledge ...

  Dust and grit showered off the trail, to be followed by a huge boulder. It flashed past them. They listened tensely, and it seemed an eternity before they heard the far-away, sullen thud of the rock hitting the floor of the ravine. From above, more thunder, and the ground vibrated. Another boulder fell past them—then another.

  Larry stopped counting at fifteen. From then on, there was naught but shale and dirt and, finally, nothing. The angle of the ledge, its distance from the outer edge of the trail, had been their salvation.

  Margo sighed heavily. Larry spat grit. Stretch, without opening his eyes, mumbled, “We can whup El Lobo’s whole lousy outfit. Let’s go, Larry ...”

  “What does he mean?” wondered Margo.

  “He’s ravin’,” sighed Larry. “El Lobo was a boss-bandido we tangled with. Must’ve been more than three years back.” He tore Stretch’s shirt at the shoulder, examined the wound. “Deep crease, but the slug didn’t hit bone, and that’s a mercy.”

  “His head ...” she fretted.

  “Gashed it on a rock, looks like,” observed Larry. “My hunch is he’s got concussion.” He grinned wryly, but with a hint of affection. “He’ll pull through, Margo. He always does. Big, dumb beanpole ...”

  He cocked an ear, listening intently. From somewhere far-off, he clearly heard the receding clatter of hooves. “They likely figure we’re done for,” he muttered, “those sneakin’ sidewinders.”

  “Who were they?” she breathed. “Who—would want to—do such a terrible thing?”

  “Plain enough, I reckon.” Larry’s face hardened. “Buffalo, Hunk and Salty. They hankered to even their score with us. When I get back to town, I’ll take Stretch to a sawbones. And then—I’ll find those three drygulchin’ skunks and—well—never mind. First I have to get us out of here.”

  “I’m scared,” announced Margo. Then, tight-lipped, she said, “Now that we have that settled, what do you want me to do? You’re the boss, Larry. I’ll do anything you say.”

  Solemnly, Larry put a hand on hers, and told her, “For a scared woman, you’re doin’ just fine.”

  “Is it possible?” she nervously asked. “Can we actually—get back up there?”

  “It has to be up,” drawled Larry. “Down is too blame far.”

  “Well—how?” she demanded.

  “I’ll bust the jaw,” mumbled Stretch, “of the first hombre t
hat insults Texas.”

  “I reckon I can lift you,” decided Larry, “high enough for you to start climbin’. I could raise up and brace myself with my hands against the wall—and you could maybe stand on my shoulders. How about that? You nervy enough to try it?”

  “Before I learned magic,” she murmured, “I worked with a team of acrobats.” She tugged off her boots. “I’m ready when you are. But, when I get up there ...”

  “You’ll be atop of a heap of rock,” opined Larry, “and Stretch and me will still be stuck on this ledge—but we ain’t licked yet. I’m bettin’ our horses got clear.”

  “Could I find them?”

  “You won’t have to go lookin’ for ’em. My sorrel will come runnin’, when I whistle.”

  “And then what?”

  “You’ll take my lariat. Find somethin’ strong enough to take our weight—savvy? Can you tie a sure knot?”

  “Yes.”

  “Bueno. You’ll tie one end of the rope to somethin’ solid, and throw the noose-end down to me. I’ll slip the noose around Stretch, and then I’ll climb up. I can make it with the rope. The rope is our only chance. When I get up there, I can haul Stretch up.”

  He got to his feet, stood with legs spread and hands pressed against the cliff face. “All right, Margo. Start climbin’.”

  Chapter Five

  Unknown Enemy

  Her nerve didn’t fail in this time of crisis. Her body was lithe and supple, her balance sure. Nimbly, she climbed to Larry’s shoulders and raised herself to her full height.

  “Now stretch your arms,” he ordered. “Reach up for a handhold.”

  She obeyed slowly, questing with her hands, finding the edge of the trail.

  He felt the sudden lessening of weight on his shoulders. For a brief moment, one foot rested on his head. More dust and grit showered over him, and the weight was gone from his head. He stared upwards, and was relieved to see that she had won a firm grip of the edge above, and was drawing herself up. She disappeared from view.

  “How’s it look up there?” he demanded.

  “The heap of rocks,” she called, “must be fifteen feet high—but it doesn’t reach clear to the trail’s edge.”

  “Here come your boots,” he announced.

  He hurled one of the boots up, then the other.

  Then he fitted two fingers into his mouth, whistled shrilly. The sound carried clear through the high country and, after a few moments, he heard the thudding beat of the sorrel’s hooves. He crouched beside Stretch awhile, worriedly examining the head-wound.

  Margo called to him again.

  “I have the rope-end secure around a rock!”

  “Right,” he grinned. “Throw me the noose-end.”

  The rope snaked down to the ledge. He seized the noose, slid it under Stretch’s armpits and drew it tight. When he pulled on the line, it became taut. This was it. Now or never. Hand over hand, with the toes of his boots digging into the cliff-face, he made the short climb to the blocked trail.

  An area of some forty feet square was completely covered, except for the narrow section at the trail’s edge. The rubble was piled high. At its far side, to the south, stood Margo and the sorrel. Stretch’s pinto was plodding towards them, nickering. The girl had done a workmanlike job of securing the lariat to a square-shaped rock. He checked the knots, grunted his satisfaction.

  Stripped to the waist, he began the hefty task of hauling Stretch up. It wasn’t the first time he had worked against his partner’s formidable weight—and vice versa. On more than one occasion, he had packed Stretch on his back. But this was different.

  When Stretch’s head and shoulders appeared above the rim of the trail, Margo dropped flat and reached for his pants-belt. Larry heaved backwards, gasping. The shaggy blond head and bloodied torso flopped over onto solid ground. Margo tugged frantically. Larry heaved again, and all six foot six of the taller Texan rose from the depths.

  Panting, but grinning triumphantly, he toted his partner to where the horses awaited. Stretch was lifted to his saddle and secured with his own lariat.

  “You climb up behind him,” he ordered the girl. “Just hang onto him, keep him in his saddle. Don’t worry about the reins. I’ll lead the pinto.”

  He boosted her up behind the befuddled Stretch, mounted the sorrel and took the pinto’s rein.

  It was a quarter of two when they returned to Tyson City. Their first call was at the home of Dr. Waldo Horton on Cedar Avenue, to which Larry was directed by a passer-by.

  They were admitted by the good doctor in person, a gaunt, melancholy forty-year-old who viewed them with a look of pained resignation. He didn’t ask their names, but Larry volunteered them anyway. Opening the front door wide, he crooked a thin finger and muttered, “Well—I’ve finished lunch—and that’s something to be grateful for. Follow me to the surgery please.”

  With Stretch draped over his shoulders and Margo bringing up the rear, Larry followed Horton along a passage to a small, white-walled room at the rear. He deposited Stretch on the table, waited only long enough to hear the result of Horton’s examination.

  “The gunshot wound,” announced the medico, “isn’t infected—and that’s a mercy.”

  “How about his head?” demanded Larry. “He’s been ravin’.”

  “Not uncommon,” shrugged Horton, “in a case of this kind. Mild concussion, I’d say. Not too serious. But, of course, he’ll have to stay here. I’ll want to keep him under observation several days.”

  “The lady wants to stay with him,” said Larry, “until he rouses. Okay by you?”

  “I have no objections,” mumbled Horton, as he began cleansing the wounds.

  “Larry ...” began Margo.

  “Thanks for stickin’ with Stretch,” he frowned. He had unsheathed his Colt and was ejecting the spent shells, reloading with fresh cartridges tugged from his gunbelt. “I’ll be seein’ you—after I’ve taken care of a little unfinished business.”

  “You’ll be one against three!” she protested.

  But he wasn’t listening. Deftly, he readied his six-gun and reholstered it. Without another word, he quit the surgery and strode along the passage to the front door. It took him less than ten minutes to deliver the horses to the Circle D livery and to advise Deckart that the animal hired by Margo was now buried under fifteen feet of rock.

  He scowled as he looked at where they had left the battered rowdies.

  “When did they leave?” he asked.

  “They didn’t. Stew took ’em,” frowned Deckart.

  “Stew?” prodded Larry.

  “Deputy Hutton,” explained Deckart. “He happened along right after you left—you and your pard and Miss Margo. I told Stew the score, and he took ’em away.”

  “Well,” said Larry, “it’s for sure he didn’t lock ’em up. They must’ve been right behind us—all the way to the bend.”

  “You sayin’ them three crazy Hashknife punchers drygulched you?” blinked Deckart.

  “That’s how it adds up to me,” growled Larry, as he moved out into the sunlight.

  He prowled Main Street another five minutes, before spotting the roughneck trio. When it happened, it was sudden and, for them, unexpected. They emerged from an alley mouth directly ahead of Larry. Their backs were turned to him, until his harsh challenge smote their ears.

  “Turn around! Face me—you sneakin’ sidewinders!”

  They turned, slowly. Buffalo grimaced nervously. Salty raised a hand to his aching jaw, and mumbled, “What the hell, Valentine, ain’t you done enough to us?”

  “My partner is laid up at Doc Horton’s house,” breathed Larry, “you scored on him—damn your mangy hides—but you weren’t so lucky with me! And now you’re gonna pay!”

  “Hold on, now!” protested Buffalo. “We don’t savvy!”

  “Lyin’ won’t help you any!” snapped Larry. “You couldn’t wait to even the score, could you? You had to tag us out of town and drygulch us!”

  �
�Drygulch you?” gasped Buffalo.

  “Valentine,” said Hunk, “we dunno what you’re talkin’ about.”

  “From here on,” countered Larry, “my gun’ll do my talkin’.” He dropped his right hand, nodded curtly. “Make your play. Three against one means you’ve got the edge. Go ahead. Maybe you’ll get lucky.”

  “Not this child!” gasped Salty, who promptly unbuckled his gunbelt. “I ain’t drawin’ against you, Valentine. Never in a million years, by golly.”

  “Me neither,” grunted Buffalo.

  “Count me out,” muttered Hunk.

  The inevitable sightseers had congregated on the opposite sidewalk and, fortunately for all concerned, any such gathering was more than enough to arouse the professional interest of a Tyson City lawman. Deputy Stew Hutton was approaching the cowpokes and their challenger at a fast run. The expression on Larry’s face started Hutton’s scalp crawling but gamely, he planted himself between the Texan and the Hashknife trio.

  “Take it easy, Texas,” frowned the badge-toter. “We don’t hold with gunfightin’ in this town.”

  “Go lose yourself, Deputy,” Larry coldly invited. “If I have to go through you—to reach these sidewinders …”

  “Damn it all,” protested Hutton, “you whupped the tar out of ’em at Deckart’s. How long does it take you to work off a grudge?”

  “He claims we drygulched him,” Salty said frantically. “And I swear we dunno what he’s talkin’ about!”

  “Where’d it happen, Valentine?” demanded Hutton.

  “In the high country,” growled Larry. “Mid-mornin’. They sniped at us—tried to bury us under an avalanche.”

  “All right, Valentine,” said Hutton. “You got drygulched, and now you’re lucky to be alive. But you can’t blame these three no-accounts. There wasn’t any way they could trail you out there and drygulch you. I know because I took ’em to the jailhouse. The sheriff bent their ears for damn-near an hour and we stowed ’em in a cell to cool off. We only turned ’em loose about twenty minutes ago. That’s gospel, Valentine.”