Larry and Stretch 7

by Marshall Grover

  “What’ll we do,” he wondered, “after we quit the mountains and settle in town?”

  “We’ll live proper is what,” she declared. “You’ll get yourself a regular job, like helpin’ out at some livery stable or workin’ in the general store. I’ll sell all those pelts I’ve been hoardin’ since last winter, and we’ll have us a place of our own. It won’t be big and fancy, but it’ll be a regular house, a place where we can invite company.”

  She stole a last glance at herself, then moved past him and out into the kitchen. He hustled out to the front yard and brought the readied wagon to the door. As he helped her up to the seat, he humbly assured her:

  “I scrubbed it—so you wouldn’t get your purty gown all dirtied up.”

  “Good boy, Burl,” she acknowledged.

  For a brief moment, she smiled down at him. His future was in her hands, she reflected. Well, not exactly. Better to say Burl’s future—and hers—depended on a couple of hard-handed Texans. She knew the meaning of optimism now, a feeling she had never known during the years of seclusion. She had nothing to hide, nothing to be ashamed of. And, tonight, Larry Valentine would prove it to the stiff-necked bigots of Horton County.

  Chapter Nine

  Lone Star Challenge

  By seven thirty-five, the area fronting City Hall was impassable to riders or vehicles. Horton folk were crowding back to the opposite boardwalk, impatiently awaiting the official party.

  At the appointed time, Annie halted her rig beside the porch of the Cattlemen’s Association office. Larry was quickly on hand to help her alight. His quick compliment won him a grateful smile, which Annie then transferred to the younger woman.

  “My stars, Beth Baldwin!” she gasped. “You look so almighty beautiful ...!”

  “Annie,” smiled Beth, “you’ve never looked better.”

  “I’m bettin’ nobody’ll recognize her,” offered Larry.

  “Until,” chuckled Annie, “it’s too late for ’em to stop me.”

  “Anybody tries to stop you,” he assured her, “they’ll have to go through me.”

  “Where’s your sidekick?” she demanded.

  “He’s around,” shrugged Larry. “Don’t worry about him. And I’m feelin’ greedy anyhow. Don’t mind sashayin’ into that hall with a fancy-rigged lady on either arm.”

  “Here comes the governor,” Beth announced.

  She had to raise her voice to make herself heard above the roar of the crowd. A gaily-festooned rig was advancing towards City Hall, coming from the direction of the Republican. The canopy had been removed, the better to afford the locals a clear view of their hero. Bell sat between Calhoun and Griswold, doffing his silk hat in acknowledgment of the applause.

  The cheering continued, as the governor and his aides descended from the rig and climbed the steps to the main entrance. Mayor Flake and his councilmen were there to greet them, and to usher them into the hall, which was already half-full of expectant locals. About the entrance, the bulk of the crowd hovered to view the arrival of other dignitaries—Dr. Howard Linaker and his wife, Max and Martha Lovett, with their three comely daughters; Philo Brayner, smiling and suave, escorting the enraptured Cora Cotterell, with the other “directors of the Hartigan Combine” in close attendance; the Reverend and Mrs. Eli Bulmer, the mayor’s wife and daughters, and many others.

  “Now,” decided Larry, “is as good a time as any.”

  Beth took his right arm, Annie his left. Unhurriedly, they quit the porch and began moving along the boardwalk opposite City Hall. When they drew level with the entrance, they stepped into the street and, as though that were a signal, the crowd retreated to left and right, clearing a path for them. Larry coolly nodded his thanks. They strolled sedately through the throng, conscious of the intent, curious stares, and the mumbled queries that were all too audible.

  “By golly—-will you look at Felix’s gal? You ever see anything so gosh-durn purty?”

  “Who’s that other woman?”

  “Dunno. Never seen her before.”

  “Could’ve swore I seen her some place.”

  “Abigail—I’d swear that was old Annie Stogie—all purtied up.”

  “Nonsense, Clem Cuttle! You must be drunk already. Just wait till I get you home ...!”

  Larry was grinning broadly, by the time they reached the steps. They ascended to the brightly decorated entrance. A pot-bellied storekeeper, who had once described Annie as a menace to the community, confronted her and accorded her a courteous bow.

  “My compliments, ma’am,” he beamed. “Don’t believe I’ve had the pleasure …”

  “And you ain’t about to,” she tartly countered. “Quit pesterin’ me, Marv Hawley, or I’ll stomp all over you!”

  “Sufferin’ snakes!” gasped the storekeeper. “It’s Eagle-Eye Annie!”

  “Annie,” grunted Larry, “hang onto your temper, for Pete’s sakes.”

  He unstrapped his gun and surrendered it to the councilman assigned to collect all hardware. On the dais, the officials stood rigid and the locals became statues, while the orchestra struck up the anthem. And then, while Mayor Flake was embarking on yet another speech of welcome, Larry guided his lady-friends across the polished floor.

  The excited murmuring drowned Flake’s pompous oration. He closed his mouth and blinked uncertainly, as the trio advanced to the dais.

  “One moment, Mayor Flake, if you please,” smiled the governor. He rose, stepped forward to stand beside Flake. His keen gaze fastened on Larry’s companions. “Well, well, well! After all these years!”

  “Your Excellency ...” began Flake.

  “It can’t be!” breathed Bell. “But it is!” He descended from the dais, took Annie’s hands in his, and now his voice rose loud enough for all to hear. “Annie Stogie! My dear Annie—how good to see you again!”

  “Call him Lennox,” whispered Larry.

  “Lennox,” nodded Annie, “you’re lookin’ fine.”

  “And you, Annie,” declared Bell, “you haven’t changed a bit.” He slid an arm about Annie’s shoulders, turned to look up at the startled, incredulous Flake. “A proud moment for me, Mayor Flake. Mrs. Stogie is an old and dear friend ...”

  “Of yours?” gasped Flake.

  “Yes, indeed,” nodded Bell. “And to meet her again is to recall happier days. I had the honor to be present at her wedding to my childhood cohort—Jake Stogie …”

  Flake hadn’t yet regained his composure. As a matter of fact, he hadn’t even begun.

  “Wedding?” he challenged. “You mean—there really was a wedding?”

  “That’s customary, isn’t it?” frowned Bell.

  “Pay no mind to poor old Willoughby,” chuckled Annie. “He had a lot of wrong notions about me, but I forgive him—on account of he never was very bright.”

  “Those were the good days—eh, Annie?” Bell eyed her fondly. “And your fine son—how is Burl?”

  “Burl’s okay,” she coolly assured him. “Bright-eyed and bushy-tailed.”

  “That was another beautiful ceremony,” enthused Bell. “One I’ve never forgotten.” To the bug-eyed Flake, he explained, “Burl is my godson—as you’ve probably guessed.”

  “G-g-godson ...?” faltered Flake. “Oh—uh—sure.”

  Covertly, Larry studied the reaction of Horton’s upper crust. Their shock was obvious—their embarrassment even more so. The mayor was stunned, at a loss for words. From his position on the dais, Felix Baldwin was dubiously eyeing his daughter. Beth flashed him a smile and, to his disquiet, a conspiratorial wink.

  And then, to climax this major sensation, Bell gestured to the musicians and said, “Let there be no further speeches, we’re here to enjoy ourselves, are we not?” He bowed to Annie. “My dear Annie—I believe this is our waltz.”

  “That it is, Lennox,” she smiled. “That it surely is.” He took her into his arms and, recovering from their initial shock, the musicians began playing. Other couples took to the floor and began whi
rling, but not until the governor and his partner had circled the hall twice. The hall was a’buzz with conjecture, and all eyes were on Annie and the governor.

  Larry was more than satisfied, as well as fervently grateful to Bell. When it came to granting a favor, he reflected, Lennox Bell was nothing if not thorough.

  A gloved hand tapped his shoulder, and a husky, bantering voice caressed his ears.

  “Senor Americano—you-like to dance with me—no?”

  “Don’t try that Mex gab on me,” he grinned, “unless you hanker to be paddled again—in front of all these citizens.”

  “Thanks to Annie and the governor,” she chuckled, “our citizens are already in a state of shock. I don’t think they could endure any more. Dance with me, Larry?”

  He gathered Beth into his arms and they joined the waltzing couples. Bell and Annie flashed past their line of vision. The governor was chuckling heartily, a man without a care in the world, and Annie’s serene smile was a fixture now. Over Beth’s head, his eyes searched for and found another whirling couple-—Brayner and the Cotterell woman. Harmon and Innes were dancing with the daughters of Sheriff Lovett—and wasn’t that an irony? Russell and Underwood were engaged in polite conversation with the preacher and his spouse.

  As the night wore on, the civic leaders gradually rallied from their discomfiture and Annie became the focus of much attention. By ten-thirty, Annie was being monopolized by a fine representation of local dignitaries, including three members of the town council and a still-befuddled Mayor Flake.

  Larry, throughout the evening, partnered such comely local maidens as caught his roving eye—a roving eye that was being kept busy keeping tabs on Brayner and Company. While joining him in another waltz, Sheriff Lovett’s youngest daughter smiled up at him and brightly remarked: “Isn’t it just plain amazing about Purdy Jarvis?”

  “Purdy Jarvis ...” Larry whirled her gracefully past the impassive Innes and Underwood, and pretended to search his memory. “Let me think now, Miss Phoebe. Purdy Jarvis—would he be one of your pappy’s deputies?”

  “That’s right,” she nodded. “The young one.”

  “Well,” he prodded, “what about him?”

  “Didn’t you know?” she blinked. “I thought everybody knew! He’s out to Luna Creek—swimmin’ all the time! Billy Joe Ryker rode out to look, and what d’you suppose Purdy Jarvis said?”

  “I just can’t imagine,” said Larry.

  “He said ...” Her eyes widened, “he said he’s searchin’ for a dead Mexican girl. Day and night, mind!”

  “Well,” mused Larry, with a philosophical shrug, “I guess every lawman ought to keep busy.”

  He wasn’t dancing when, at eleven-twenty, he saw two of Brayner’s cohorts making an unobtrusive exit by a side door. Less than three minutes later, unnoticed by all save Larry, Brayner, Underwood and Russell also departed. And, less than a half-minute later, Larry was retrieving his Colt from the table by the main entrance, and hustling out into the night.

  From a side alley, he moved into the long lane running parallel with Main. Already, his quarry was almost out of sight, because, beyond the glow of lamplight around City Hall, the town seemed shrouded in gloom. It was an optical illusion created by the too-bright illumination. He advanced thirty yards uptown, moving cautiously along that back alley, before his eyes became accustomed to the other light—pallid moonlight by which he clearly discerned the stalled rig this side of the bank.

  Reaching a rain barrel some fifty yards from the double-seated vehicle, he sidestepped to it and crouched to watch the four men converging on the bank’s rear door. Where was the fifth? On the driver’s seat of the rig, no doubt. At this distance, he recognized Brayner—standing by the door, gesturing urgently to Underwood, whose right arm was moving in and out with rhythmic precision. Were they working on the lock? No. The panels. He was out of earshot of City Hall and clearly heard the sound made by Underwood’s specially designed saw. He raised his eyes to the roof and spotted the dim silhouette of his prone partner.

  A few minutes later, he saw Russell remove the panel and toss it to one side, then reach into the aperture. What followed was a metallic, thudding sound. He made a guess about that. Having made an opening, it was easy work for them to reach through, raise and drop the iron bar—not to mention unlocking the door from the inside. How long had it been, since a Horton bank had last been robbed? Quite a time, probably. And Baldwin’s staff had become careless. To leave a key in its lock was an unpardonable lapse.

  As they moved through the doorway, he noted that they had donned dusters. Brayner, it seemed, thought of everything. Should they be spotted, the observer would remember only the dusters.

  It was time for his next move, and he made it quietly. Luke Innes, clad like his cohorts in a duster, heard nothing, saw nothing, until Larry had reached the driver’s seat and was climbing aboard. He started convulsively, reached beneath his duster and opened his mouth for a warning yell—which never came. Larry closed his mouth with a short, devastating jab, followed it with a swinging blow that plunged him into oblivion.

  Then, quickly and deftly, Larry stripped the duster from his victim and donned it. One push was all it took to send Innes crumpling into the rear of the rig. On an afterthought, he bent backwards and explored Innes’ clothing, to locate a .45—pearl-plated butt and a cut-down barrel—a weapon typical of the man.

  He glanced to the roof, lifted a hand in salute. Stretch’s head and shoulders appeared for just a moment. Satirically, the taller Texan raised his hat. Larry grinned, emptied his holster and hammered back, and, from then on, kept his keen gaze on the bank’s rear door.

  Inside, the shades had been lowered and a lamp lit. The combination lock of the massive Koenig had surrendered to Underwood’s artistry, and now the heavy door swung open. All the carpetbags were opened in readiness. Underwood stared at the stacked shelves, whistled softly and turned to grin at his cronies.

  “Ever hear of a king’s ransom, boys? Well—you’re looking at it.”

  “Get it emptied,” growled Brayner, “fast!”

  Within five minutes, the contents of the safe had been transferred to the bags. One by one, Brayner snapped them shut. He rose up, hefting two bags, and muttered:

  “Kill the lamp—raise the shades—and let’s get going!”

  Russell and Harmon hustled to obey, then fell in behind their leader, with Underwood bringing up the rear. They crept along the rear corridor to the open doorway. Russell, the last to leave, shoved his baggage into the alley and lifted the bar, before moving out to join his cohorts. For a few moments he fumbled with the bar, fitting it back into position. Underwood, chuckling softly, locked the door from the inside by means of the aperture. Then, to cap his achievement, he replaced the panel.

  They turned towards the stalled rig, toting their spoils. Patiently, and with his nerves rock-steady, Larry waited until they were halfway between the vehicle and the bank, before calling his challenge.

  “That’s all, boys. Drop the bags and grab sky.”

  The four stopped dead in their tracks. Russell gasped a curse and yelled a query.

  “Luke—what the hell’re you talking about?”

  “Luke can’t hear you,” drawled Larry. He worked his way to the left side of the seat and repeated his command. “Drop the bags!”

  “Only one, Philo,” grunted Harmon. “The four of us —against only one. Are we gonna let him stop us?”

  “Nobody stops us!” snapped Brayner. “We need that rig!”

  The bags thudded to the ground, as four hands darted beneath the floppy dusters. Larry fired, hurled himself out of the vehicle, and, as he dropped to all fours, saw Underwood staggering away from his companions, clutching at his right shoulder. Stretch roared a warning, which the thieves ignored. Russell whirled, his gun blazing. Brayner and Harmon, shooting fast, advanced on the rig.

  Over the gun-thunder, Larry heard Russell’s yell of anguish, an indication that Stretch had score
d on him. A bullet struck a front wheel and ricocheted, whining. Another kicked dirt into his face. He spat grit, dived between the front and rear wheels and rolled out from under, cutting loose with his own Colt roaring in his right fist, the captured weapon in his left. Harmon shuddered, reeled and collapsed, but Brayner kept coming, his gun still blazing.

  Brayner was less than five yards from him now and Stretch dared not shoot for fear of hitting his prone partner. For a tense moment, Larry saw the boss-thief’s dilated eyes glowering at him over a leveled Colt. He rolled quickly and fired twice, as Brayner’s weapon boomed for the last time. The bullet slammed into the ground. Brayner groaned an obscenity, coughed and began sagging at the knees. His gun hit the dust.

  Larry was rising, when Innes’ full weight descended upon him, forcing him facedown into the dust. He heard Stretch’s strident oath and guessed his partner was making a hasty descent from the room. But, meanwhile, Innes had recovered sufficiently to prolong hostilities. His clenched fists pounded Larry’s head and shoulders. Larry twisted, took a wild left to the jaw, then grasped Innes in a bear hug and began the struggle to regain his feet.

  They came upright, just as Stretch dropped into the alley. Innes’ hands were closing about Larry’s throat. If this battle was to end, there couldn’t be a better time than now. Larry’s bunched left slammed into Innes’ belly, driving the wind out of him. Innes turned pasty-white, recoiled from him, threw up his hands to protect himself, but too late. Larry unwound a wild uppercut that jarred his arm from wrist to shoulder and lifted Innes off his feet. He was unconscious, before he crashed into the side of the rig and toppled to the dust.

  “Runt ...?”

  There was some anxiety in Stretch’s voice. Larry waved him off.

  “Don’t fret about me. Go check on that first jasper I gunned.”

  He retrieved and holstered his six-gun, cocked an ear to the urgent footsteps. Men were entering the rear laneway by means of the side alleys. Some of them coughed a protest against the cordite fumes still hanging in the air, as they paused to gape at the sprawled bodies.