Larry and Stretch 7

by Marshall Grover

  “Nothin’ special,” said Larry. He helped himself to his hardware, began strapping it on. “We heard tell Horton was a big town—and peaceable.”

  “We’re here,” declared Stretch, “to catch up on our rest.”

  “Peace and quiet,” drawled Larry, “is what we crave.”

  “For a couple hombres that crave peace and quiet,” grinned Hamilton, “you’ve been blowin’ up a storm.”

  “Well,” frowned Lovett, “strangers are welcome in Horton, so long as they don’t start raisin’ hell. Specially this week.”

  “What,” asked Larry, “is so special about this week?”

  “Big doin’s,” Lovett told him. “Celebrations and such. Official reception. Grand ball. Governor of Colorado comin’ in on the westbound train on the ninth. The mayor says we got to keep our city clean, if you know what I mean. Got to make a good impression on the governor.”

  Hamilton mimicked the mayor, as he declared, “The streets of this fair city won’t be safe for honest riffraff and stumblebums. They’ll all be cooped up in this here calaboose.”

  “What d’you say, Valentine?” prodded Lovett. “Do you go quiet, make it easy on yourself and me? Or are we gonna have trouble with you?”

  “Told you before,” shrugged Larry. “We came to Horton for a quiet time.”

  “Fine,” nodded Lovett.

  “Bueno,” grunted Stretch. “Hey, runt, can we get outa here now? I itch all over, and I crave to change my duds.”

  “You can itch awhile longer,” frowned Larry, as he helped himself to a chair. “I want to ask the sheriff about Annie and Burl.”

  “You interested in the Stogies?” challenged Lovett. “Well, I guess that’s only natural, seem’ as how you had a sample of her shootin’.”

  “She wasn’t shootin’ at us,” Stretch pointed out. And he added, with fervor, “Which is somethin’ to be thankful for.”

  “That’s a fact,” mumbled Hamilton, who had assumed a prone position on the couch. “Old Annie can burn a jackrabbit’s backside at a hundred yards—or so they say.”

  “I kind of admire the old lady,” Larry told them.

  The ageing lawmen traded wistful grins.

  “Yeah ...” Lovett heaved a sigh. “She’s ornery and fractious—mean as they come—but you can’t help admirin’ her. That’s how we feel about her.”

  “How,” demanded Larry, “did she get that way?”

  “She’s been holed up in the mountains a long time,” mused Lovett.

  “Powerful long time,” agreed Hamilton.

  “She was a sight younger—and purtier,” Lovett recalled, “when she first come to Horton County. Tried to act friendly, I reckon. Tried to get along with county folks, but it was hard for her. She had quite a chip on her shoulder, and folks just wouldn’t trust her. As for the boy, well, he was big and dumb and kind of careless with his hands—you know what I mean?”

  “Itchy-fingered?” suggested Larry.

  “I wouldn’t call Burl Stogie a thief,” Hamilton interposed. “It’s just he—uh—keeps findin’ stuff. I mean—stuff that didn’t get lost—until he found it.”

  “Even that far back,” drawled Lovett, “you could tell Horton was gonna be a real do-good town. We had plenty rowdy hombres, plenty hardcases and tinhorns and whisky-heads—but the psalm-singers outnumbered ’em ten to one, and that’s the way it still is. I guess Horton is just about the most respectable community you’re apt to find, this far west of the Mississippi.”

  “Annie wasn’t partial to all them do-gooders?” asked Larry.

  “Wrong,” said Lovett. “She was mighty partial to ’em. Ain’t nothin’ Annie admires more than a respectable citizen. All her life, that’s what she wanted to be. Respectable and proper.”

  “But she never made it?” prodded Larry.

  “Burl’s fault,” grunted Hamilton. “He had to shoot off his fool mouth.”

  Lovett eyed his senior deputy reproachfully. “What Burl said,” he pointed out, “mightn’t be true. “You can’t pay no mind to what a fool boy says.”

  “I ain’t sayin’ I believed it, Max,” shrugged Hamilton. “But the whole damn county—they believed it.”

  “Yeah,” frowned Lovett. “And that was plumb unfortunate.”

  “Whole county believed what?” demanded Larry.

  “What Burl said in school,” explained Lovett. He half closed his eyes. “That was ten—maybe twelve—years back. I can never recollect clear. Anyways, he up and said as how he never knew his pappy.”

  “So?” Larry raised his eyebrows.

  “He said,” sighed Lovett, “he didn’t know if his ma ever had a husband. As if that wasn’t bad enough, he talked up a storm about how his ma used to work saloons, back when she was young and purty. Well—that really did it. The kids were blabbin’ it around, likely gettin’ it all mixed up, and purty soon the whole damn town was callin’ Annie a lost woman and such, claimin’ Burl was a—well— claimin’ he was what they call unlegitimate.”

  “Illegitimate,” offered Larry, as tactfully as he knew how.

  “That’s the word,” nodded Lovett. “Well, maybe it’s true and maybe it ain’t. Anyways, Annie got good and sore. There wasn’t anybody’d believe in what she said, and all our fine psalm-singin’ ladies were treatin’ her like dirt. She stood it for maybe three-four weeks, and then she lit out. Took to the mountains, her and the boy. Been there ever since.”

  “How do they live?” Larry wondered.

  “Huntin’ and such,” shrugged Lovett. “Every once in awhile, they come to town—totin’ a deer carcass or a load of pelts. They trade their hides for provisions and ammunition.”

  “Annie,” grinned Hamilton, “has got somethin’ else to sell. Tell ’em, Max.”

  Lovett grinned self-consciously.

  “I never got close enough for a look at Annie’s shack,” he told the Texans, “but it seems she operates a still out back—brews up a strong mess o’ moonshine.”

  “Wildest liquor I ever did drink,” mumbled Hamilton. “I ain’t about to try it again, and that’s a fact. Had me just one leetle mouthful—and got stoned for two straight days. Wild. Real wild!”

  “Somehow,” Larry frowned, “’though she shot at us, and she’s moonshinin’ against the law, I can’t get the old lady off my mind. I keep thinkin’ about her—wishin’ I could help her. Maybe that’s because she’s Texan.”

  “She’s Texan all right,” agreed Hamilton.

  “Come tomorrow,” Larry told Stretch, “we’re gonna ride out and pay her a sociable visit.”

  “Gents,” warned Lovett, “it’s never that easy. You go lookin’ for Annie’s place and you’re apt to get your heads blowed off.”

  “Thanks for the advice,” Larry acknowledged, “but my mind’s made up. We’ll go see her.”

  The drifters bade the lawmen a cheerful farewell and moved out into the sunlight. Not a cloud in the sky now. The drizzle had come and gone, leaving a soggy legacy, the mud that would not become dust until sundown, or maybe later. They returned to the Blue Belle, mindful that they hadn’t had time to pay for their drinks. The barkeep poured refills and accepted payment.

  “Some ruckus,” commented the saloonkeeper. “You boys fight like you were born to it. Got to say I’m obliged to you—for nudging that hassle out of here and into the street. It’s easier on the furniture.”

  “Them Jarvis jaspers,” opined the barkeep, “always was too big for their britches. High time they got their comeuppance.”

  “I guess,” suggested Gintz, “you boys’ll be movin’ on soon.”

  “Not real soon,” said Larry. “We hanker to hang around a spell. Aim to pay a social call tomorrow on a certain lady.”

  “That so?” prodded McMahon.

  “A lady,” said Larry, “name of Stogie.”

  Gintz and McMahon traded quick glances. An explanation was called for, and Larry didn’t mind repeating the story of his run-in with the Box V hardcases, and the
subsequent intervention of Annie Stogie. Gintz and the barkeep gave him a respectful hearing. More refills were poured. This time, Gintz was buying.

  “I guess,” he reflected, “old Annie can scarce remember how it feels—to have somebody pay her a visit sociable. Yeah. It’d be kind of friendly.”

  “You could maybe put us on the right trail,” suggested Larry.

  Gintz recoiled.

  “You mean direct you to Annie’s place? Well, heck, how would I know where to find that shack?”

  “You’d know,” opined Larry. “You—and any other jasper that buys Annie’s firewater.”

  The saloonkeeper grinned self-consciously.

  “Uh. You know about that?”

  “We know,” nodded Larry.

  “Amos,” said Gintz, “give me pencil and paper.”

  McMahon produced the necessary, and Gintz began sketching a rough map, with the drifters carefully following the pencil-point.

  “Right here,” Gintz indicated, “you’ll find a tall rock. Sugarloaf Rock, it’s called. You can’t miss it. Well, beyond that point, you’re in Eagle-Eye Annie’s territory.”

  “There’s a password?” prodded Larry.

  “There’d have to be,” grunted Stretch. “Else she’ll come shootin’.”

  “Would you boys,” asked Gintz, “know how to whistle Dixie’?”

  The Texans scowled at him.

  “Can a fish swim?” challenged Stretch.

  “No offence,” grinned the saloonkeeper. “Anyway, that’s your protection. You whistle ‘Dixie’—or sing it—and Annie will know you’re comin’ peaceable. You won’t get shot at.”

  “Just one other thing,” warned McMahon. “If Annie offers you a shot of her wild medicine, you better think twice. That stuff is like dynamite.”

  “We’ll remember,” shrugged Larry.

  “You lookin’ for a place to stay?” demanded Gintz.

  “Why, sure,” nodded Larry. “You makin’ us an offer?”

  “I got a spare room upstairs you can use,” said Gintz. “Seven days for five dollars, and buy your own liquor. Two beds. No bugs. Fair enough? And you can check your horses at Mardine’s stable, uptown a ways.”

  This arrangement was agreeable to the nomads. To be accommodated within reach of an ample liquor supply seemed more than satisfactory, and would save wear and tear on boot-leather. They offered their thanks, and Larry paid Gintz the five dollars, after which they witnessed positive proof of the potent qualities of Annie Stogie’s brew.

  A small, insignificant little man came trudging into the saloon and breasted the bar. He wore shabby town clothes and was of indeterminate age, as nondescript a citizen as the Texans had ever seen. Raising a finger, he caught the barkeep’s eye and made his request.

  “A short shot of the special, Amos, if you please.”

  “Mr. Ketchum,” frowned McMahon, “you sure you want the special? How about a short beer?”

  “Amos,” frowned the little man, “you know what 1 want.” He produced a coin, dropped it on the bar. “If I can pay for it, you can pour it.”

  “Go ahead, Amos,” grunted Gintz. “I guess he knows what he wants.”

  McMahon lifted an unlabelled bottle from under the bar, poured two inches into a small glass and slid it to Mr. Ketchum’s eager hand. Mr. Ketchum raised it stoically, downed the moonshine in two gulps, set the empty glass down. The Texans waited patiently.

  It was, they observed, quite a transformation. And fast—very fast. Ketchum’s complexion changed from pasty white to deep red. His back straightened. His chest expanded. His eyes became cloudy and his voice was blurred—yet stronger than before. He struck the bar-top with a clenched fist, and announced:

  “He should never have surrendered! I told him—time and time again. ‘We can lick ’em,’ I told him. ‘Just leave everything to me.’ But he wouldn’t listen!”

  “’Scuse me, friend,” frowned Stretch. “Who wouldn’t listen?”

  “General Robert E. Lee,” scowled the little man.

  “Here he goes again,” sighed McMahon. “He never held a gun in his hand in his whole life—but he’s gonna fight the war again.”

  “Funny part about it,” Gintz told the Texans, “is he ain’t even a Southerner. He was born and raised in Minnesota, never got close enough to the war to smell gunsmoke.”

  “Lee was a fool,” declared Mr. Ketchum. “Next time will be different. I’ll be in command!”

  “That’s tellin’ ’em, Mr. Ketchum,” grinned Gintz. The little man glowered at him, and coldly enquired, “Do you relish facing a firing squad?”

  “Well …” shrugged Gintz.

  “Dismiss!” snapped Mr. Ketchum.

  “Yessir, Colonel,” said Gintz.

  The small man turned on his heel and strode majestically towards the batwings. En route, his sense of direction failed. He bumped against a table, overturned two chairs, but made it to the entrance.

  For a long moment, the Texans stared incredulously at the swinging batwings.

  “Convinced?” challenged Gintz.

  “Convinced,” Larry fervently assured him.

  A short time later, the drifters checked their horses into the Mardine Livery Stable and toted their pack rolls to the Hapgood Tonsorial Parlour and Gents’ Bath-House.

  Chapter Four

  Beautiful Rebel

  After breakfast the following day, Horton’s would-be rebel Beth Baldwin prepared herself for an early morning ride. Clad in a Mexican rigout given by her friend Maria Fernandez in exchange for some rich eastern finery, she made her exit. Straddling her clean-limbed buckskin colt, and toting her fish-pole, she rode fast away from the residential sector, skirted the Mexican quarter and proceeded north.

  Ten minutes after the rebel had quit town, Larry and Stretch led their saddled horses out of the Mardine livery, swung astride, rolled and lit cigarettes and began their journey to the mountain haunt of Annie Stogie. The morning was clear and sunny, a fine morning for a leisurely ride, and their mood was mellow. Beyond Horton’s northern outskirts, they nudged their mounts to a jogtrot and headed in a northeasterly direction, unaware that they were travelling ground already covered by the comely Beth.

  Simultaneously, three hardcase employees of Box V were being assigned to check the Luna Creek area. Brett Vickery’s prime beeves had, of late, taken to straying in that general direction. With orders to round up and drive every bunch-quitter back to Box V range, the trio began a slow run to the southeast.

  The participants in what promised to become a fine piece of melodrama were gradually converging on the same locale, that section of the creek where a narrow bridge provided a safe crossing to the east bank. Beth was approaching along the west bank, when the cowhands spotted her.

  Never in a long time had they seen a Mexican girl of such eye-filling beauty. They shattered the morning air with their wild whoops, spurred their mounts to speed and rode fast to intercept her.

  “Hey, muchacha—wait for us!”

  “Hold on, senorita! What’s your hurry?”

  Beth, more indignant than frightened, hustled the buckskin towards the bridge. To some extent, the situation amused her. Three rowdy cowpokes smitten by a Mexican girl— alone and unprotected. But, despite her waywardness, she had her pride. No sweaty-handed cowpoke would be allowed to molest the doughty Beth Baldwin.

  She grimaced in exasperation. One of the riders had beaten her to the bridge. She came on fast, guided the buckskin onto the causeway. The rider grinned over his shoulder, moved on to the other side, then turned his mount side-on to her, to block her way. She reined up in the very center of the span, eyed him angrily. Why not maintain this masquerade? It would be interesting—fooling these grinning show-offs.

  She resorted to broken English.

  “Andar! Let me pass—por favor ...!”

  “What d’you say, Reno?” called the puncher on the east bank.

  “That’s as far as she goes!” yelled the man called Reno, as
he dismounted on the west bank.

  Beth darted a nervous glance over her shoulder. This Reno, she observed, had a mean look to him. He was tall and scrawny and his grin was predatory. His eyes were hungrily inspecting her bare arms and shapely torso. He swaggered, as he stepped onto the bridge and moved towards her. The third man hooked a leg about his saddle-horn and called jeering encouragement.

  “Go on, Reno. You been braggin’ how you hanker for a female—and what you’d do if you found one. Well, there she is.”

  “Ain’t no call to be scared, girlie,” grinned Reno.

  “You stay away—keep back!” gasped Beth. And she added, bitterly, “Gringo pig!”

  Reno kept coming, his greedy eyes disrobing her, and still her anger was greater than her fear. She felt a driving urge to erase the complacent grins from their faces, to shatter their arrogance. But how? She nudged the buckskin to movement again. Reno quickened his step, and the second rider wheeled his mount and started it walking towards the buckskin. Both men were now less than five yards from her.

  She threw a glance to her left. Luna Creek was running fast and deep at this point. One leap would carry her over the rail and into the water. She was a strong swimmer, as much at home underwater as above the surface—but did her assailants suspect as much? Probably not. A show of panic, on her part, would serve a double purpose now. She could escape them, and she could give them a bad scare.

  “Gringo pig, she called me,” growled Reno. “The hell with her! No greaser talks that way to me!”

  As she slid her feet from the stirrups, Beth screamed a frantic protest, feigning fear that only served to spur him on.

  “Don’t touch me, gringo pig! I will kill myself ...!” Reno made a grab for the buckskin’s bridle. The other men loosed startled oaths, as Beth raised herself and vaulted from the saddle, pitching over the rail and, with an ear-splitting shriek, dropping head-first into the water.

  For a pregnant moment, the Box V men were petrified. Then, in urgent haste, Reno dashed to the railing and stared downward. There was no sign of her now—naturally. She had filled her lungs with air during that downward plunge. Already she was many yards downstream, swimming underwater.