Larry and Stretch 7

by Marshall Grover

  “Sure enough,” nodded Larry.

  And they withdrew to the porch, trading complacent grins.

  “Got to hand it to her, huh?” challenged Larry. “Quite a gal is Miss Beth,” Stretch agreed.

  They rolled and lit cigarettes, casually viewed the passing scene, the while they conversed in undertones.

  “Thing I like about this burg,” drawled Stretch, “we been here two whole days—and it’s been plumb peaceful.” Some ten minutes later, Beth called to them. They reentered the Bon Ton to find Cora Cotterell securing a large cardboard box with string. Beth was all smiles. Annie, too, was smiling, but hesitantly, almost shyly. To the Texans, she murmured:

  “It’s a mighty generous thing you’re doin’ for me, and I ain’t about to forget it.”

  “The gown okay?” asked Larry.

  “I never in my life,” declared Annie, “had a gown so purty.”

  “And a perfect fit,” Beth announced.

  “Well,” said Larry, “just so long as Annie’s satisfied.” He dug out his bankroll and paid for their purchase. Cora made change for him, all the time struggling to keep her resentment in check. Then, taking Annie’s arm, Beth smiled serenely and said:

  “Shall we go?”

  They moved out to the wagon. Stretch stowed the box behind the seat, while Larry helped Annie aboard.

  “Don’t forget now,” he told her. “You meet us tomorrow night in front of the Association office, just like Beth said.”

  “Nary a thing could stop me,” Annie declared. She gathered her reins and subjected her benefactors to a searching and amiable scrutiny. “Won’t try to tell you how I feel. Ain’t got the words for it.”

  “Forget it,” grinned Larry.

  “Texans,” Stretch reminded her, “gotta stick together.”

  “Nobody,” said Annie, “ever treated me so kindly before. You got a good heart, Miss Beth. A mighty fancy lady you are, but you’re a sight smarter’n I ever figured. It’s a mortal shame I never got to know you so good.”

  “Any friend of Larry’s,” Beth declared, “is a friend of mine.”

  Annie thoughtfully studied the shabby raiment of the Texans.

  “Tomorrow night,” she reflected, “us gals are gonna be all gussied up and lookin’ purty as paint. Seems to me you boys better do likewise.” She chuckled and winked. “You wouldn’t expect us to go steppin’ with a couple scarecrows, would you?”

  “We can take a hint,” Larry solemnly assured her.

  “How’s the bankroll?” asked Stretch.

  “We got enough,” said Larry, “to buy us some black duds—maybe even a couple white shirts.”

  “Fair enough,” approved Annie.

  She clucked to the team. Larry and Stretch lifted their Stetsons. The wagon gave a lurch and rolled a few yards, after which Annie turned it and drove back along Main Street. Stretch heaved a sigh, and remarked:

  “Kinda chokes me up inside—seein’ old Annie so all-fired happy.”

  “You and me both,” muttered Larry.

  Beth’s hearty laughter roused them from their reverie. She chuckled a moment, shook her head in wonderment.

  “You continue to amaze me. Hard-boiled Texans— tough as saddle-leather. Who would ever guess you’re so soft-hearted?”

  “It’s just,” Larry explained, “we didn’t want for Annie to be so lonesome. She’s sociable enough, and she hankers to live right here in town, but ...”

  “You don’t have to explain it to me,” she murmured. “I know the story only too well.”

  “She did have a regular husband,” Larry assured her, “and Burl ain’t a—I mean—uh—he was born proper ...”

  “If Annie Stogie’s word is good enough for you,” said Beth, “it’s certainly good enough for me. Besides, I like her, and I admire her spirit. Well, now ...” She raised her eyebrows expectantly, “shall we proceed to the Ringberg Emporium?”

  “How’s that?” blinked Larry.

  “You heard what Annie said,” she prodded. “You’ll need new clothes, if you expect to escort us to the ball.”

  “Well, doggone it,” protested Stretch, “we don’t need for no female to help us buy our duds. It’s plumb undignified.”

  “Humor me,” she begged. And, again, she was the bright-eyed rebel, the enemy of convention. “For many years, I’ve wanted to buy men’s clothes.”

  “Well,” shrugged Larry, “you can tag along if you want—only don’t try to get us rigged fancy, savvy?”

  “We’re just folks,” asserted Stretch.

  “Plain duds,” said Larry, “are good enough for us.” On their standards, the remainder of that day passed quietly. After purchasing their black suits and escorting Beth home, they took their midday meal at an uptown Chinese diner. The sundown hours were spent at the Blue Belle, where Larry bought into a congenial poker game. He lost a little, won a little, and their modest bankroll increased by seventy-five dollars.

  After supper, they retired to their quarters above the barroom. Larry’s bottle was uncorked and, while discussing their proposed reunion with Horace Brill, the moonshine steadily diminished. Stretch, during his fifth shot, remarked: “We oughta save some of this dynamite for Governor Horrie. As I recall him, he was real partial to firewater.”

  “Funny,” mused Larry, “how you can forget a man for so long, and then start rememberin’ him again. Yeah— Horrie liked his liquor, and he was a square-shootin’ hombre. Not high-falutin’, like those other big shot politicians.”

  “You can count on him,” Stretch opined. “He’ll do like you say. He’ll claim he knew Annie’s husband, and how he godfathered Burl, and then these Horton folks’ll have to admit she’s respectable—resecable—ressy ...”

  “You’re hittin’ that bottle too hard,” warned Larry.

  “Don’t fret about me,” grinned Stretch. “I was weaned on corn liquor.”

  By ten o’clock, the bottle was empty and they were sleeping deeply. They hadn’t been physically exhausted, but Annie’s mountain-dew was a powerful sedative. For eleven and a half hours, they slumbered, never stirring, never twitching a muscle.

  The eastbound train arrived on schedule, nine o’clock of the following morning, and the visiting dignitary was more than satisfied with the welcome accorded him. A huge crowd had assembled at the railroad depot. The brass band, brightly uniformed and well-rehearsed, gave of its best, blaring loud above the cheers of the excited throng. Horton matrons and their progeny were bedecked in their Sunday clothes. Mayor Willoughby Flake had invested in a silk hat and a Prince Albert coat especially for the great occasion. His speech of welcome was a typical sample of frontier oratory, but was mercifully brief.

  Shoulder to shoulder on the observation platform of the special car, the governor and his two aides amiably acknowledged the applause. To Lennox Bell’s right stood the tall, alert-eyed John T. Calhoun, a Pinkerton detective of some renown, who specialized at the important chore of body-guarding high officials of the government. Ta. Bell’s left stood the short, bespectacled Harley Griswold, secretary to the governor.

  Lennox J. Bell was everything the locals had expected, and more. A tall, white-maned, well-groomed man of great dignity, but with a ready, engaging smile. An impressive figure, every inch the elder statesman, yet a man of the people.

  The governor’s speech was as brief as Flake’s, his words well chosen. In little more than ten minutes, he won their fervent admiration and esteem, plus an assurance that, at the next election, ninety per cent of Horton County would vote for Lennox J. Bell.

  The civic leaders escorted the visitors from the depot to the Republican Hotel in two open gigs drawn by matched bays, with the band leading. Main Street was jam-packed with wildly-cheering towners and cattle-folk from the outlying spreads. The din became deafening, but, in their room above the Blue Belle Saloon, two less-distinguished visitors slumbered on.

  It was a quarter of ten, and the governor’s party was already installed at the Republican. Th
e crowd on Main Street had lessened somewhat, but the town’s spirits were still high. And now, at long last, Larry opened his eyes, yawned and rose from his bed. Simultaneously, Stretch revived and rose from the floor. After the emptying of the bottle, Larry had managed to reach his bed. Stretch hadn’t.

  They knuckled sleep from their eyes, slightly but not irreparably hung over, fairly steady on their feet. Their heads ached, but, after some discussion of their condition, they agreed they would probably survive. By the time they had bathed and shaved, they were ready for breakfast.

  To Stilmeyer’s Diner, two blocks north of the Republican, they retired to attack ham, eggs and hot biscuits with their customary gusto. The proprietor, while serving them, excitedly described the welcome ceremony.

  “Too bad you fellers missed it,” he sympathized. “What a sight it was—the band playing and the flags waving ...”

  “Well,” said Larry, as he began his third cup of coffee, “the governor ain’t no stranger to us, so we’ll still get to talk to him.”

  “You mean personal?” challenged Stilmeyer.

  “I mean personal,” Larry assured him. “He’s an old pard of ours.”

  “From way back,” offered Stretch.

  “A real honor, I’d call it,” Stilmeyer commented, “being a friend of Governor Bell.”

  “Brill,” Larry corrected.

  “Brill?” frowned Stilmeyer. “Funny. I thought sure his name was Bell.”

  A short time earlier—about the time Larry and Stretch were reviving—Philo Brayner climbed the stairs to the governor’s suite and knocked for admittance. The door was opened by Mayor Flake, who, together with three town councilmen, was enjoying an impromptu get-together with the visitors. He greeted Brayner with an eager smile and a warm handshake.

  “Come on in, Mr. Brayner. The governor’ll be pleased to see you.”

  “Just calling to pay my respects,” drawled Brayner. Still flashing his eager smile, Flake ushered Brayner into the richly-carpeted parlor. The Pinkerton stood by the window, gnawing on an unlit cigar. The three councilmen were perched on a sofa, hip to hip. His Excellency lounged in an overstuffed chair, with Griswold in close attendance. Not until his eyes fastened on Brayner’s smiling countenance did Lennox Bell’s composure fail him. He turned pale, made a choking sound. Abruptly, the civic leaders became silent. The mayor blinked perplexedly, as he announced:

  “I believe you’re already acquainted with our good friend Philo Brayner, sir. Maybe—uh—the shock of seeing him—after such a long time ...”

  “It’s been many years, Lennox,” smiled Brayner. He came forward, right hand extended. “Sorry if I startled you. A face from the past sometimes has that effect.”

  Bell licked his lips, nodded slowly and took the proffered hand.

  “A pleasure, Phil ...”

  “Philo,” Brayner good-humouredly corrected. “It has been a long time, Lennox, if you’ve forgotten my name ...”

  “I meet so many people,” frowned Bell. He nodded to Griswold and the Pinkerton. “Allow me to present ...”

  “Philo Brayner,” said Brayner.

  “My secretary, Harley Griswold,” offered the governor, “and my good friend from the Pinkerton Detective Agency, Mr. Calhoun.”

  “Gentlemen ...” Brayner bowed politely. “My pleasure.”

  “You hardly slept at all last night,” Griswold muttered. “I’m sure our friends will understand.” He gestured apologetically to the visitors. “His Excellency must rest.”

  “Could we talk awhile first, Lennox?” asked Brayner. “I’ll not monopolize you, I promise.”

  “Yes—yes ...” Bell was making the effort to regain control of himself, but his color hadn’t returned. “By all means, Philo. If you’ll excuse us, gentlemen?”

  “Whatever you say, sir,” smiled Flake. “Until two o’clock then—at City Hall?”

  “For sure,” nodded Bell.

  After the civic leaders had departed, the governor quietly requested that he be left alone with his visitor. Calhoun seemed reluctant to do so, but Bell was firm about it. Brayner then seated himself close to his grim-faced host and coolly produced a couple of his imported Havanas. “Smoke, Lennox?”

  “Get to the point,” breathed Bell.

  “Come now,” chided Brayner, “my old friend ...”

  “Don’t call me that!” gasped Bell.

  “Easy,” frowned Brayner. “Let’s keep our voices low —and let’s not lose our tempers.”

  “You have the audacity to confront me,” muttered Bell, “after all these years.”

  “Good years—bad years—productive years ...” chuckled Brayner. “You’ve come far, Lennox. I’ve followed your progress with keen interest. Imagine! Governor of the State of Colorado. It goes to prove how high a man can rise with hard work, a ready wit, persuasive oratory. You always had the gift of the gab, Lennox. I remember—back in Ohio—in the old days ...”

  “Damn your infernal nerve,” scowled Bell, “and to hell with the old days. I rose above my environment because I wanted better things, wanted to make something of myself. No reason why you couldn’t do the same. But, of course, you haven’t. How many terms have you served in the penal institutions of Nebraska, Iowa, the Dakotas ...?”

  “Let’s not go into that,” Brayner mildly suggested.

  “You’re a thief,” said Bell, bitterly. “You always were, and always will be, a thief.”

  “We all have our weaknesses—dark secrets in our past,” muttered Brayner. “And might I remind you that the illustrious Governor Bell is no exception?”

  “So that’s it!” Bell’s handsome, sensitive face was contorted now. He trembled. His knuckles showed white, as he gripped the arms of his chair. “Blackmail? That’s why you’re here?”

  “Before we come to terms,” drawled Brayner, “allow me to refresh your memory. That old manslaughter charge, Lennox, and the warrant issued on you ...”

  “Years ago!” breathed Bell. “Long years ago.”

  “Of course,” shrugged Brayner.

  “I’d have pleaded self-defense,” Bell asserted.

  “Had you ever surrendered yourself to the law,” countered Brayner.

  “That warrant couldn’t be valid, after all this time,” opined Bell.

  “I agree,” nodded Brayner. “It’s unlikely the Ohio law authorities would pursue the matter. On the other hand, if the facts were publicized ...”

  “By yourself—naturally,” scowled Bell.

  “The scandal would ruin you politically,” Brayner pointed out, “and socially, Lennox. Moreover, the shock might be too much for the gracious but delicate Mrs. Lennox Bell.”

  “Leave my wife out of this!” gasped Bell.

  “Impossible, my friend,” grinned Brayner. “Your grief is her grief. Whatever affects you, affects her.”

  “She knows nothing ...!” began Bell.

  “How could she know?” shrugged Brayner. “You’d hardly confide such grim secrets to such a refined lady— the fragile flower of Denver society. Would she have married you, Lennox, had she known the truth? How would she react, if I gave the whole sorry story to some newspaper—some tabloid opposed to your administration? Be realistic, Lennox. The shock would kill her. A woman in her condition—with a heart ailment ...”

  “Damn you, Brandon ...!” groaned Bell.

  “Brayner,” his unwelcome guest calmly corrected. “I found it expedient to change my name—as you changed yours. Can’t say I blame you, Lennox. Naturally, you wouldn’t care to be reminded of your impulsive youth, those wild brawls, how you struck the blow that sent Jud Marriot to the Ravensburg graveyard. And the women, Lennox. Those ladies of easy virtue. Do you ever remember your old conquests? Peg Durant? Rose Breck? Indiana Lil—and all the others?”

  “Stop it,” panted Bell, “Stop it!”

  He struggled to his feet, trudged to a liquor cabinet and fumbled for an empty glass, a decanter.

  He poured a stiff shot, swigged it d
own. Some of his color was restored, but not his nerve. It had failed him. The situation was desperate, and Brayner was in full control of it.

  “I have four colleagues, closely associated with me in my—uh—current project. They know the truth about me, Lennox, but they know nothing of your imperfect past. I’ve been discreet, wouldn’t you say?”

  “What you really mean,” sighed Bell, “is that you have four accomplices. If you haven’t told them about me, it’s only because a blackmailer hates to share his spoils—or to give others a chance to intimidate his victim. It isn’t discretion on your part. It’s greed.”

  “Your secret is safe with me, my old friend,” Brayner smoothly assured him.

  “As long,” frowned Bell, “as I pay your price.”

  “It isn’t much to pay,” said Brayner. “I’d call it a small favor—a very small favor.”

  “By Godfrey ...!” began Bell.

  “Need we waste time in pointless argument?” Brayner’s expression became ugly. “You have to agree to my demands. What alternative have you?”

  The governor drained his glass, returned to his chair. As he re-seated himself, he breathed a sigh of bitter resignation, and asked, “Exactly what do you expect of me?”

  “Very little,” said Brayner. He blew a smoke-ring and watched it disintegrate. “We propose to make a withdrawal of funds from a local Horton bank—unofficially, of course. The First National is ideally situated. Quite a distance from the scene of tonight’s festivities. We anticipate no interference, since that area will be virtually deserted. There is, however, the usual problem that must be faced—the problem of the successful getaway.”

  “And?” prodded Bell.

  “At your convenience,” drawled Brayner, “any time before sundown, you will advise the depot-manager that five old friends will be accompanying you to Dale Ford—at your invitation. I suppose you know where Dale Ford is located? The last town on your itinerary, Lennox, and comfortably close to the Utah border.”

  “You wouldn’t dare ...!” faltered Bell.

  “But it’s so easy, Lennox!” chuckled Brayner. “You’ll alert the railroad authorities, which means they won’t be suspicious when we take our baggage to the depot—to be loaded aboard your special carriage. What could be easier?”