Larry and Stretch 7

by Marshall Grover

  “She really meant it!” whooped the man on the east bank.

  “I don’t see her,” fretted the other man. “She sank. She’s drowned. Hell, Reno ...!”

  They lived another moment of anguished indecision, before they heard the thudding of hooves, an urgent, drumming sound that drew their attention to the south. Two tall riders were fast approaching. From a high rise, the Texans had witnessed the last act of this tense drama. The distance prevented their identifying the three hardcases, but their victim was obviously female—and in trouble.

  “Somebody comin’!” gasped the man on the east bank.

  “I don’t aim to let ’em see my face,” muttered Reno. “C’mon! Let’s get outa here!”

  He hustled back to his horse and swung astride. At a hard gallop, the three punchers began making themselves scarce. Some twenty-five yards downstream, Beth surfaced and, in one sweeping glance, saw all she needed to see. Her would-be attackers were in flight. As for her would-be rescuers, they were now close enough for her to recognize them. She chuckled, gulped air, and submerged again.

  A few moments later, the Texans brought their mounts to a slithering halt beside the bridge. Stretch was cursing luridly, and itching to pursue the three fleeing assailants, but Larry had other ideas.

  “Might be a chance I’ll find her,” he growled, “if I move fast enough.”

  “She’ll be drowned already,” opined Stretch.

  “Only one way to find out,” Larry retorted. He had dismounted and was shucking out of his shirt. “You take care of her horse—and wait right here.”

  Garbed in naught but his pants, he dived into the stream. The water was cold and the current strong, but not dangerously so. He filled his lungs and went underwater, his eyes probing the gloom for some glimpse of color—which might be the gay skirt of a drowning woman. Or a flash of white—which might be her blouse.

  Until his lungs were aching a protest, he swam underwater, searching desperately. When he came up for air, he trod water and gasped for a straight two minutes. The bridge was almost out of sight now. He had reached a bend of the creek and was despairing of ever finding the girl alive.

  He submerged again and resumed his search. Below the surface, visibility was decreasing. He could see naught but the reeds, the underwater growths and the murk of the creek bed. Again, he struck up for the surface. Fresh air smote his wet face and he gulped gratefully. And then, treading water, he threw a glance to the west bank. His heart jumped. His eyes bulged.

  There was, on that west bank, a small clearing, screened—but not completely—by brush. The skirt and blouse, along with various items of feminine underwear, were being draped over the bushes to dry. The girl was partially obscured by the bushes, but it was all too obvious that she had removed every article of clothing.

  His gruff challenge took her by surprise. She started convulsively, whirled and positioned herself behind the foliage, so that only her bare shoulders and streaming head were visible. Her eyes gleamed as she recognized him. He was addressing her in Spanish. Like her assailants of a short time before, he was jumping to the obvious conclusion. On a sudden impulse, she decided against correcting this error, and replied in Spanish.

  “Go away, senor. Please! I beg you ...!”

  His Spanish, she grudgingly conceded, was more fluent than hers.

  “Have no fear of me,” he called. “I saw you fall from the bridge. I tried to find you—thinking you would drown.”

  “There were three others ...” she frowned.

  “Gone now,” he assured her. Then, tiring of the foreign tongue, he asked, “You parlay any Americano at all, señorita?”

  “I speak ...” she faltered, “ … a little.”

  “All right ...” He gestured impatiently. “I just want you to know I wouldn’t have jumped into this doggone creek if I’d guessed you could swim so good.”

  “I swim strong,” she brightly announced.

  “Congratulations,” he scowled.

  “These other gringos ...” She shuddered, rolled her eyes, “… they frighten me, señor!”

  “I’ll bet,” he grunted.

  “But,” she declared, “you are not like these evil ones. You are kind. You are one gran’ caballero, no?”

  “I am,” he tartly informed her, “one wet caballero. So hasta la vista, señorita. When your duds are dry, you can make it back to the bridge.”

  “Muchas gracias,” she smiled.

  He struck out for the east bank, clambered ashore and, without a backward glance, began trudging away towards the bridge.

  ~*~

  It was late morning now. Luna Creek was several miles to their rear. They were moving high into the mountains and, thanks to the map supplied by Saul Gintz, they were sure of their route. In a little while, they would sight Sugarloaf Rock.

  “Kind of a funny situation,” opined Larry. He was referring to his unnecessary search for a waterlogged corpse of female gender and Mexican origin. “Most I could hope for, I told myself, was to find her dead and tote her home.”

  “I’ll be doggoned,” growled Stretch, “if I see anything funny in it. You could of got drowned dead yourself. And them three hombres that was molestin’ her—they got clear away. It sticks in my craw. Three heroes—crowdin’ one helpless little Mex gal ...”

  “It sticks in my craw, too,” Larry assured him. “And I got me an idea about those jaspers.”

  “What about ’em?” demanded Stretch.

  “They hightailed it out of there in one helluva hurry,” Larry reminded him, “right after she fell in the creek.”

  “Uh-huh. And so?”

  “And so—they likely think she drowned.”

  “Why, sure!”

  “Are we gonna tell what we know—so they can quit worryin’?”

  “Well ...”

  “We don’t have to say anything—to anybody. If we keep our mouths shut, those woman-chasers are gonna sweat plenty, which is exactly what they deserve. Any arguments, big feller?”

  “No arguments.” Stretch guffawed, slapped his thigh. “Hey, that’s purty. That’s real neat. They’ll be frettin’ up a storm!”

  From then on, they kept a wary eye open for the all-important landmark. Larry was fast forgetting the damp but devastating “Mex girl”, forgetting also that, for a brief moment, her face had reminded him of another face. Of course, he hadn’t had time to memorize the finer points of that other woman, the fashionably-gowned woman who had cheered him on during his brawl with the relatives of Deputy Jarvis. At the moment, his thoughts were centered on the unsociable, oddly-appealing Annie Stogie.

  The large oblong of lava-rock towered to the right of the winding trail. Grinning, Stretch asked:

  “You feel like whistlin’—or singin’?’

  “It’s a fine mornin’ for singin’,” shrugged Larry, and he began chanting the familiar ditty. “I wish I was in the land of cotton ...”

  The song was only half-sung, when they heard the harsh voice challenging them. Annie Stogie emerged from a stand of brush some twenty yards ahead, her rifle covering them.

  “That’s far enough! Wheel them horses and skee-daddle!”

  They reined up and, with careful courtesy, doffed their Stetsons. Stretch frowned uneasily at the leveled rifle and elected his partner spokesman. With his most reassuring grin, Larry announced:

  “We’ve come a’callin’, Mrs. Stogie, ma’am. No pryin’ No trouble-huntin’. Just a sociable visit.”

  “Scarce anybody,” she countered, “visits me social.”

  “Saul Gintz,” said Larry, “told us how to find you. Maybe you didn’t notice yesterday. We’re Texans, too. Any reason why a couple honest Texans can’t visit with a real Texas lady?”

  Annie’s eyes narrowed in suspicion.

  “You callin’ me a lady?”

  The brush rustled. Burl Stogie appeared, hefting a shotgun. Somewhat dubiously, he asked:

  “Are you callin’ ma a lady?”

  “Bo
y,” grinned Larry, “we ain’t callin’ her a man.” He nodded affably to Annie. “Didn’t get a chance to thank you proper yesterday. If you hadn’t cut loose at those Box V waddies, we mightn’t have got off so easy.”

  Annie lowered her rifle, shrugged and remarked, “If Saul Gintz vouches for you, I guess you’re okay.” She nodded to her son. “Bring ’em along, Burl.”

  “Thisaway,” offered Burl.

  The Texans ambled their mounts farther up the trail, tagging the hulking Burl and his strong-striding mother. Through a tangle of spruce and aspen they moved, across a rock-littered hollow and up to a wooded ridge. Beyond was a broad clearing bordered by tall pines—the private domain of these doughty outcasts. The cabin wasn’t as ramshackle as Larry had been led to believe. It appeared solid and weatherproof. Burl’s swayback and Annie’s mule were accommodated in a pole corral. A wagon was stalled out back. There was no pump in sight, but the Stogies had water aplenty; a spring bubbled some thirty yards north of the cabin. The still, Larry guessed, was located far back in the timber.

  At Annie’s invitation, they hitched their mounts to a corral-pole and followed her into the house. The kitchen was somewhat disorderly, but clean enough. They accepted chairs, began building smokes. Burl loafed in and politely enquired, “You crave coffee—or d’you wanta take a chance on ma’s mountain-juice?”

  “When you speak of my high-class liquor,” Annie tartly chided him, “speak respectful. It’s what keeps us eatin’.”

  “We’ll take a chance,” grinned Larry.

  Annie produced a bottle and two tin mugs, poured a couple of generous shots. The Texans toasted her gravely. “Lone Star forever,” said Larry.

  “Remember the Alamo,” drawled Stretch.

  A wistful smile creased the sad old face. She nodded approvingly.

  “Real fittin’ toast, boys. Drink hearty.”

  They swigged a few mouthfuls, set their mugs down and traded glances.

  “How you feelin’?” Burl demanded.

  “It ain’t all that pow’ful,” Annie assured them. “Won’t hurt you at all—long as you don’t do nothin’ strenuous— right after you drink it.”

  “I don’t feel any different,” Stretch bravely announced, “except—all of a sudden—I got a notion to find me a grizzly bear and rassle him.”

  “We got curious about you, ma’am,” frowned Larry. “Asked the sheriff a heap of questions. Not because we’re nosy, mind. It’s just we took a shine to you—like to help you if we can.”

  “Talked to old Max, did you?” she mused. “He ain’t so bad. Him and Mitch Hamilton give me no trouble at all.”

  “But that other deputy—that Jarvis feller,” muttered Burl, “he’s real proddy.”

  “I guess,” sighed Annie, “you’ve heard all the stories they tell about me. Well, it don’t matter anymore. My reputation ain’t worth a hill o’ beans. I just got to get used to it.” She subjected her visitors to a shrewd and thorough scrutiny. Whatever she saw in their weather-beaten faces, it seemed to satisfy her. “What do we call you?”

  “He’s Stretch,” said Larry, “I’m Larry.”

  “Call me Annie,” she offered.

  “Annie,” said Larry, “we’d like you to know we don’t believe what we hear. I mean—about Burl’s pappy and you.”

  “I thank you for that,” she frowned.

  “There ought to be some way to prove it,” suggested Larry.

  “Me and the boy’s father,” declared Annie, “got wed legal, with everything fair and square. Trouble is, I can’t prove it any more. Back when Burl was a little feller, when he shot off his fool mouth in school, I sent a letter to the mayor, back in the town where I wed Burl’s father, and where Burl was born. That was Scottsburg, Nebraska. I’d lost the marriage paper, and that other paper ...”

  “Burl’s certificate of birth?” prodded Larry.

  “Uh-huh,” she nodded. “That’n. So I wrote to the mayor of Scottsburg, asked him to mail me a couple of copies, so I could show it to all them Horton do-gooders in black and white—you know?”

  “What happened?” frowned Larry.

  “Well,” she shrugged, “he sent me an answer, and he apologized real polite, but he couldn’t help me any. Seems the records office got burned down, along with the Scottsburg city hall. There just wasn’t any more legal record of the marriage, or of Burl gettin’ born respectable. Parson that hitched us—he up and died. Midwife that delivered Burl—she was long gone and far away. Nobody knew where to find her.” She smiled a rueful smile. “So that’s how it goes, Larry.”

  Larry swigged another mouthful of Annie’s potent painkiller. It was affecting him, but insidiously. Unlike Stretch, he felt no urge to hunt a grizzly and “rassle” it barehanded. The effect, in his case, was more subtle. Burl didn’t appear so shiftless now, or so ugly. Burl was a true-blue, upstanding young feller who more than deserved the solicitude of the Lone Star Hellions. Annie had become, in his eyes, a frail, gentle old soul weighted down under a harrowing problem to which it seemed there was no solution. He felt suddenly inspired to aid her, to hurl himself wholeheartedly into the battle to prove Burl’s respectability. There had to be a way of verifying Annie’s marriage, and the fact that Burl was the legitimate issue of that marriage.

  He emptied his glass and poured himself a refill, and it was then that, unwittingly, Annie planted the germ of an idea in his busy brain.

  “Never to go to chapel in Horton, Sundays,” she lamented, “me and Burl in our Sunday-best and able to look all them do-gooders in the eye, able to say we’re just as respectable as any of ’em. And that fancy shindig at the new city hall—oh my! What wouldn’t I give to be there! Me in a white gown—dancin’ with the mayor, maybe. Wouldn’t that be somethin’?”

  “What fancy shindig might you be speakin’ of?” Larry enquired.

  “You likely heard about it,” she suggested. “Special ball to honor a mighty special feller—the governor of Colorado in person. Governor Bell himself.”

  “No.” Larry’s pulse had quickened. “You got the name wrong, Annie. It’s Brill.”

  “Brill?” Stretch raised his eyebrows. “Hey! That’s a name sounds pow’ful familiar.”

  “It ought to,” grinned Larry. To Annie, he explained, “We know this Brill feller.”

  “You claim you’re acquainted with him?” she challenged.

  “Better than that,” Larry assured her. “He owes us a favor.”

  “It comes back to me now,” muttered Stretch. “He got kidnapped. Ain’t that how it was, runt? Yeah. We pulled him out of a real bad fix, and he swore he’d get even. He said, if ever there was somethin’ he could do for us ...”

  “And now,” declared Larry, “there is somethin’ he can do for us.”

  Even under the influence of Annie’s firewater, some of the details of that almost-forgotten adventure were fairly clear in his mind.

  Several years ago, the newly elected State governor had embarked on a tour of Colorado’s westernmost territories, and that tour had become somewhat more hectic than His Excellency had anticipated. Hectic, insofar as he actually had been kidnapped. The homicidal Weyman gang, for their own nefarious reasons, had made him their prisoner. Soon afterwards, Larry and Stretch had drawn cards in that life-and-death gamble, challenging and defeating the entire Weyman outfit, as well as returning the governor safe and sound to his temporary headquarters. His Excellency had been loud in his praise of his gallant rescuers, and had vowed eternal friendship. Anything they wanted—anything at all—they had only to ask.

  “I’m about to make him pay off,” Larry told Stretch now. “It ain’t much I’ll be askin’, and I know he’ll do it for us.”

  “I recall him well,” nodded Stretch. “Horrie Brill’s his name—and he said he’d do anything for us.”

  “That’s real friendly,” Annie conceded, “you bein’ pards to this here governor-feller. But I don’t see as it makes any difference to me.”

  “It’s
gonna make a heap of difference,” Larry assured her.

  “Well—how?” she demanded.

  “Let me think on it,” he suggested, “while we’re eatin’.”

  Lunch with Annie and son was a rough and austere repast, but satisfying. By the time they had finished eating, and were swigging coffee spiked with Annie’s moonshine, their Texas insides could not have accommodated another crumb. They rolled and lit cigarettes and, in Larry’s mind, it was all very clear now. A simple strategy, uncomplicated, but sure-fire. He had devised a scheme which would restore Annie to favour in the righteous county of Horton. She would, he assured her, be accepted as a respectable, law-abiding member of the community. Moreover, no citizen would ever again dare to cast aspersions on the legality of her union with Jake Stogie, and there would be no doubts as to the legitimacy of her son.

  Annie’s eyes glowed, but she shook her head dubiously. “It sounds fine,” she murmured, “only I don’t see how you can bring it off.”

  “I can bring it off,” asserted Larry. “It’ll be a sight easier than you’d think.”

  “Go on, runt,” grunted Stretch. “Tell ’em how.”

  “For a starter,” Larry told Annie, “you’re goin’ to the ball.”

  “Me—at the governor’s ball?” She blinked incredulously. “Heck, no. Me in my old black bombazine? They wouldn’t let me show myself in Main Street—let alone inside City Hall. They’re ashamed of me.”

  “You’re goin’ to the ball,” Larry doggedly repeated. “And you’ll be tricked out in a fine new gown, a genuine white ball-gown.”

  “How am I gonna buy such a rig-out?” she argued. “A ball-gown costs more dinero than I got.”

  “The gown,” said Larry, “is gonna be a gift—from us to you. We ain’t stony-broke, Annie. We got better than two hundred greenbacks in our jeans, and that ought to be plenty.”

  “I couldn’t let you ...!”

  “You have to let us. It’s for Burl, as much as for you. Texans stick together, Annie, so don’t give me no arguments.”

  “Larry—there ain’t a store in Horton would deal with me. None of the fine ladies’ stores anyway. They call me trash.”