Larry and Stretch 7

by Marshall Grover

  “She cusses like a mule-skinner,” growled Flake. “She cooks moonshine in that secret still of hers. Ten years she’s been moonshinin’, and you never tried to find her still. Damnitall, Max, she’s a menace to law and order, and I’m telling you what you ought to do. You ought to take your deputies out to the mountains and arrest her—her and her fool son—and stow ’em in jail till the governor leaves.”

  “Well ...” began Lovett.

  “Here comes Brett Vickery,” interrupted Hamilton, “and that hardcase ramrod—Kellin. Strikes me they look plenty riled up.”

  The Box V boss, a stout, florid-complexioned man in his early fifties, hastily dismounted and climbed the steps. Red Kellin came loafing after him, his none too clean fingers busy with the building of a cigarette. The rain hadn’t increased, but was prevailing. Still a moist drizzle, slowly transforming the dusty main street to a soggy quagmire.

  “Sherilf ...!” began Vickery.

  “Aw, hell,” groaned Hamilton.

  “Easy, Mitch,” grunted Lovett. “Go on, Brett. Say your piece.”

  “How much longer,” demanded Vickery, “are you gonna let that trigger-happy old harpy sling lead at Box V riders? She’s at it again, Sheriff!”

  “All right, all right,” frowned Lovett. “When did it happen?”

  “Just this morning!” snapped Vickery. He nodded to the ramrod. “You tell ’em, Red.”

  Kellin told them—his own version of the affair.

  “We caught Burl Stogie tryin’ to run off one of our steers. He put up a fight, and then a couple proddy strangers—Texans—come bustin’ in outa nowhere ...”

  “Attacked you?” challenged Lovett.

  “Damn right,” nodded Kellin. “So we had to defend ourselves, didn’t we?”

  “Keep talkin’, Kellin,” muttered Lovett, “I’m listenin’.”

  “We near had these Texans whupped,” growled Kellin. “And then the old witch opened up on us from somewheres back in the hills.” He raised a hand to his left shoulder and winced. “Creased me, she did. Creased Sam Holloway, too. Kept snipin’ at us till we got the hell outa there—damn her ornery hide.”

  “What about the Box V steer?” asked Hamilton.

  “We got away with the steer,” frowned Kellin.

  “And nobody got killed?” prodded Hamilton.

  “No,” said Kellin, “but ...”

  “Well,” shrugged Hamilton. “Seems to me you did all right. Could’ve been a heap worse, huh, Max?”

  “Heap worse,” agreed. Lovett. “They don’t call her Eagle-Eye Annie for nothin’. If she’d wanted to trigger you hombres proper ...”

  “I’ll swear out a complaint against her,” declared Vickery. “Her and those interfering Texans. We want no hardcase saddlebums drifting into Horton County—stirring up trouble.”

  “You claim they were trouble-makers?” challenged Lovett. “Professionals, maybe?”

  “Hire-out gunhawks, I reckon,” muttered Kellin.

  “That does it!” gasped the mayor. “That really does it! Sheriff Lovett, I demand that you organize a posse this very minute, and hunt those gunhawks down, and ...” Kellin’s savage oath cut the mayor’s speech short. The ramrod was squinting at the two strangers now idling their mounts through the mud of Main Street. Vickery and the others turned to follow his pointing finger. Deputy Jarvis became as tense as a pointer catching scent of quail.

  Blissfully unaware that they were the subject of much attention from the gathering on the law office porch, the Texans reined up outside the Blue Belle Saloon.

  “That’s them!” breathed Kellin. “The same two hardcases!”

  “Well, damn it all ...!” blustered Jarvis. “Hardcases ain’t welcome in Horton County.” He squared his shoulders, marched to the steps. “I’ll bring ’em in, Sheriff.”

  “Did I say you should arrest ’em?” demanded Lovett. But Purdy Jarvis wasn’t listening. Resolutely, he descended to the boardwalk and began trudging diagonally across the muddy street. His time had come, or so he thought. Here was the opportunity he had long awaited, and he would grasp it with both hands. So they dared to patronize the Blue Belle, did they? Well, they would rue their choice, these proddy strangers. The Blue Belle was the haunt of Jarvis’ kinsmen and cronies. At any time of any day, you could always find a brother, cousin, uncle or cohort of Purdy Jarvis drinking at the Blue Belle.

  Lovett resumed his seat, blinked pensively at Hamilton and asked, “Mitch, you ever get the notion young Purdy’s a mite too ambitious?”

  “He sure is a hustler, that boy,” nodded Hamilton.

  “Purdy Jarvis has a great future,” opined the mayor. He scowled at the older lawmen. “He’s conscientious—which is more than I can say for certain other parties.”

  ~*~

  At first glance, the interior of the Blue Belle made a favorable impression on the newcomers. The barroom was sizeable, the shelves behind the bar well stocked, the customers absorbed in their drinking and the barkeep obviously friendly. By way of greeting, he accorded them a nod and a grin, placed a bottle and two glasses on the bar top. They ambled across to the bar, hooked their boot heels on the brass rail and swapped pleasantries.

  His name was Amos McMahon. His employer—the weary-eyed, oily-haired man surveying the strangers from a corner table—was Saul Gintz. Larry and Stretch traded nods with Gintz, raised their glasses and began tending their thirsts, the while they conversed affably with the barkeep.

  They were still working on those first drinks, when Jarvis came barging in. The deputy’s right fist was gun-filled, his youthful countenance arranged in a belligerent scowl. To the bar he hustled, brandishing the naked .45. The other drinkers paused to watch, and all conversation died. Sometimes, Larry Valentine could be patient—but this wasn’t one of those times. Jarvis’ badge of office was concealed by his slicker, and he didn’t think to introduce himself. Therefore, from Larry’s point of view, he was just another hothead on the prod.

  “Hardcases, huh?” challenged the deputy, with his gun-muzzle level with Larry’s middle. “Figure to raise a little hell in Horton, huh? Well, by Judas, you better guess again!”

  “Mister,” frowned Stretch, “you better lay that hogleg down—’fore it goes off and hurts somebody.”

  “I’m givin’ the orders ...!” barked Jarvis.

  Larry had heard enough. He had kept his temper under control for almost a half-minute—an uncommonly long time, under the circumstances. Jarvis’ Colt was closer to him now, close enough for him to perceive that it was as yet uncocked. He threw up his left arm, forcing Jarvis’ gun-hand away. He then bunched his right and drove a short jab to Jarvis’ jaw, with devastating results. Jarvis retreated in disorder, stumbling backwards to the rear wall, crashing against it, sagging and cursing.

  As though that were some kind of signal, three hefty locals promptly rose from their chairs and advanced on the strangers. Stretch chuckled softly, and remarked, “Ain’t this somethin’? And just when I was afeared this’d be a real quiet town!”

  “We wanted a quiet town—remember?” scowled Larry. To the oncoming locals, he growled a warning. “Stay away from us. We ain’t lookin’ for trouble.”

  “When you hit my kid brother,” snapped the taller of the three, “you’re just beggin’ for trouble!”

  “You can’t brace a Jarvis and get away with it,” asserted the heftiest of the three. “Purdy’s my cousin ...”

  “And my nephew,” announced the eldest of the three, who appeared twice as aggressive as the others.

  “Hold on now, boys ...!” called Gintz.

  “Shuddup, Gintz!” growled the taller of the three, as he swung a blow at Larry.

  On the law office porch, Mayor Flake was again holding forth on his current favorite subject—the visit of the governor, and the need for Horton folk to be on their best behavior.

  “Annie Stogie,” Flake was saying, “and all the other anti-social riffraff of Horton County—they’ll shame us! They�
�ll bring disgrace upon this law-abiding community, unless we …”

  He broke off, as Lovett urgently gestured for him to be silent. The saloon was a goodly distance from the law office; nevertheless, the sound had reached them with harrowing clarity. An ominous sound. A voice raised in anger. Then another. A hoarse shout. A yell of pain.

  “It sounds like,” suggested Hamilton, “young Purdy’s doin’ it the hard way.”

  “Don’t he always?” sighed Lovett.

  Another—and louder—sound. A crash. They saw the batwings burst open. Something plummeted through the saloon entrance, bounced off a porch-post and pitched into the street, and the something was human. Lovett felt obliged to rise. He did so reluctantly, and enquired of Hamilton: “Ain’t that Purdy’s big brother Ruben?”

  “Yep,” grunted Hamilton. “That’s Rube Jarvis all right.”

  “That’s Rube Jarvis,” nodded the sheriff, “but he ain’t all right. He’s floppin’ in the mud with his nose bloody and one eye black.”

  “Well, damn it all ...!” fumed the mayor.

  Another cry smote their ears, loud, penetrating, jubilant. A Rebel yell unleashed by the strong-throated Stretch Emerson. It caused Flake’s scalp to crawl, and drew a curse from Red Kellin. The taller Texan emerged from the saloon, toting a slickered figure, which he hefted towards a drinking trough.

  “Hey!” gasped a councilman. “That’s your deputy! That’s Jarvis he’s totin’!”

  “Mitch,” frowned Lovett, “I guess we got us an emergency here. Go fetch a couple shotguns.”

  By the time the shotguns had been procured, Deputy Jarvis had been dumped in the drinking trough and was filling the air with his yells of indignation—and the brawl was spilling out into the street. When Larry appeared, he was wrestling strenuously with the deputy’s uncle, while the deputy’s cousin clung to his back like a limpet. They rolled down the steps and into the mud.

  A crowd was gathering fast and, while trading punches with his assailants, Larry was intrigued to note that a beautiful young woman was well to the fore, cheering him on. He was enjoying his first sight of the comely Beth Baldwin, under unusual circumstances.

  Chapter Three

  The Truth About Annie

  Reluctantly, Larry drew his gaze from Beth’s radiant countenance. Hostilities continued, to the disadvantage of the local brawlers. Purdy Jarvis hadn’t risen from the trough and was fast becoming waterlogged. His uncle was flopping on the saloon steps, spitting blood and frantically counting his teeth with a questing tongue. The elder brother was swinging at Stretch, but missing. Stretch was retaliating with a left to the belly and a right to the jaw—once, twice, thrice—and showing no sign of tiring. The cousin attempted to kick Larry in the belly. Larry sidestepped, unwound an uppercut and sent Cousin Stanley sprawling across the trough, just as the deputy was about to clamber out.

  To the horror of her fond father, who was fast approaching the scene of chaos, Beth Baldwin unleashed a scream of delight. Larry grinned a modest grin, raised a boot and rested it atop a hitch rail, then emptied his holster and covered his battered victims. Some few seconds later, the sheriff and his elder deputy arrived, plus shotguns. Noting their metal stars and the leveled scatterguns, Larry shrugged resignedly and returned his Colt to its holster.

  Lovett darted a reproachful glance at the elated Beth, and told her, “This is no place for a gentle lady like you. Skedaddle—or I’ll send for your father.”

  “I’m here!” gasped the banker. “Good grief, child ...!”

  “Best fight I’ve ever seen!” she enthused. “Keep your eye on the dark-haired stranger, Dad. He’s magnificent!”

  “Come away!” Baldwin, red-faced with embarrassment, seized her arm and began hustling her through the crowd. “Heaven forgive you, child! Are you out of your mind?”

  Side by side, the Texans soberly surveyed the leveled shotguns. Stretch summoned up his most engaging grin, and cheerfully assured the lawmen, “Us Texans is plumb law-abidin’.”

  “You call it law-abidin’,” challenged Lovett, “to attack a deputy—and shove him in a doggone horse trough?”

  “What deputy?” blinked Larry.

  This exchange was continued in the law office, while the elder deputy relieved the strangers of their hardware. Mayor Flake and his fellow-aldermen had retired, as had Red Kellin and the battered relatives of Deputy Jarvis. Deputy Jarvis, saturated and infuriated, was loudly abusing the prisoners. Brett Vickery had lingered to witness these proceedings.

  Uncomfortable in their sodden, mud-smeared clothing, the Texans stood by Lovett’s desk, building cigarettes and trading scowls with the aggressive Jarvis.

  “Unprovoked assault on an officer of the law!” Jarvis whirled on his chief triumphantly. “That’s a breach of Clause Ten of the city ordinance. I’ll stash ’em in a cell, and we’ll ...”

  “What kind of a town are you runnin’ here?” wondered Stretch. “It’s a sorry day when a couple do-right Texans can’t buy a friendly drink without some hot-headed no-account tryin’ to prod ’em into a fight.”

  “They started it!” whooped Jarvis.

  “Purdy boy,” sighed Lovett, “will you let up on that hollerin’? You near to fracture my doggone ears.”

  “These jaspers,” frowned Vickery, “are the same two that attacked my ramrod.”

  Larry eyed him coldly and enquired, “Would your ramrod be a redheaded galoot that totes a whip? Name of Kellin?”

  “What about Kellin?” challenged Vickery.

  “Just this about Kellin,” scowled Larry. “You tell him from me, mister. If I ever see him heftin’ that whip again, I’ll bend the stock of it over his fool head.”

  “You had no right to interfere ...” began Vickery.

  “He was about to whip a feller name of Stogie,” said Larry. “They had him half-stripped and tied to a tree.”

  “Brett,” frowned Lovett, “that’s a mite raw. I don’t hold with Kellin takin’ the law into his own hands.”

  “Wait a minute—wait a minute!” gasped Vickery. “Damn it all, Sheriff, you know I’d never give Kellin such an order. I’ve warned him never to carry that whip again.”

  Larry talked on, curtly, relentlessly. Vickery’s indignation abated. Like the lawmen, he wasn’t enjoying Larry’s description of the fight in the foothills.

  “Seven of ’em,” Larry told them in conclusion, “against the two of us. When I braced Kellin, he used his whip on me. Some other hombre roped my partner out of his saddle …”

  “So we figured it was high time we taught ’em a lesson,” drawled Stretch.

  “All right, all right,” growled Vickery. “I’ve heard enough.” He turned to the sheriff. “I’m withdrawing my complaint against these men, and I guarantee my ramrod will never tote that whip again. As for old Annie Stogie …”

  “Better leave Annie to me, Brett,” grunted Lovett. “I’ll—uh—kind of warn her, next time I see her.”

  Vickery departed. The junior deputy, pacing back and forth and shedding water, resumed his tirade.

  “So they’re off the hook—far as Vickery’s concerned—but they’re still guilty of assault on an officer of the law. We got to hold ’em for trial—make an example of ’em!”

  “Simmer down, Purdy,” chided Lovett. He seated himself at his desk, began stuffing tobacco into the bowl of his briar. Pensively, he studied the tall strangers. “Just who are you jaspers anyway?”

  The Texans gave their names. Lovett shrugged unconcernedly. Hamilton propped a shoulder against the doorjamb and stared out at the muddy main street. Jarvis, still quivering with indignation, repeated the names scathingly.

  “Valentine and Emerson. Hah! You can bet they ain’t givin’ us their real names. It’s my hunch they’re a couple owlhooters on the run!”

  Of Lovett, Larry sourly enquired, “Does he always talk like a damn fool?”

  “Louder,” offered Hamilton, without turning his head, “when he’s wet.”

  “I do
n’t want to hear any more bull-roarin’,” frowned the sheriff. “All I want is the straight facts, regular and reasonable. Go ahead, Valentine, I’ll hear you now.”

  “Your shavetail deputy,” said Larry, “didn’t get around to introducin’ himself.”

  “How could we tell he was a lawman?” challenged Stretch. “He was rigged in that goldurn slicker—so we couldn’t see his consarned badge. All he did was sashay up to Larry and shove a six-gun in his face.”

  “Purdy,” frowned Lovett, “is that how it was?”

  “He’s tryin’ to talk his way out of a tight fix,” jeered Jarvis.

  “Mitch,” said Lovett, “hustle over to the Blue Belle and talk to Saul and Amos.”

  “Yeah, sure,” grunted Hamilton.

  He was gone less than ten minutes. When he returned, he grinned derisively at his youthful colleague. Lovett patiently enquired, “What do they say?”

  “It’s just like Valentine told you,” muttered Hamilton. “Purdy didn’t give his name or show his badge. He just busted in and put his iron on ’em. And then Valentine downed him, and Purdy’s kinfolks invited ’emselves to the party.”

  The sheriff eyed Jarvis sadly.

  “You and your muscle-bound kinfolks ...”

  “Well, damn it all ...!” began Jarvis.

  “Give up on it, Purdy,” Lovett advised. “You made a fool mistake. If your badge was covered, you can’t accuse these hombres of attackin’ a law officer. Besides, you started it.” He jerked a thumb. “Go on home and change your duds, else you’ll catch your death.”

  “All right!” breathed Jarvis. He stared belligerently at the Texans. “All right! This time, you get away with it—but I ain’t through with you yet. I’ll be watchin’ you from now on. You make just one wrong move—and you’re jailbait!”

  “You keep talkin’ that way, boy,” grinned Stretch, “and you’ll scare me half to death—maybe.”

  “Go to hell!” snarled Jarvis, as he turned on his heel and slouched from the office.

  Lovett shoved the Texans’ gunbelts to the edge of the desk, leaned back in his chair and asked, “What brings you boys to Horton anyway?”