Larry and Stretch 9

by Marshall Grover

  “Wouldn’t be no use, son,” drawled Luke. “I know this territory—ever’ last inch of it. Time you rounded the butte they’d be long gone and far away.”

  “So they jump us,” fumed Stretch, “and get away with it?”

  Luke eyed them blankly, as he politely enquired:

  “Who was they—and why’d they try to ambush you?”

  “How the hell do we know who they was, or why they did it?” scowled Stretch.

  “Well ...” The old man shrugged philosophically, “I reckon it was lucky for you I happened along.”

  Stretch stared hard at Larry. Larry stared hard at Stretch, gestured helplessly, and remarked:

  “You got to admit it, big feller. He did run out and cover for us.”

  “I saw it,” frowned Stretch, “but I still don’t believe it.”

  “You don’t have to thank me,” Luke humbly assured them. “I’m just a dirt-poor old sodbuster that don’t amount to nothin’. Makes no difference to me if I risk my life to help a couple fine, upstandin’ fellers like you. I always been this way, you know? Never think o’ myself. Always doin’ for others.”

  Again the drifters traded thoughtful stares. There was unreality in this situation. Their benefactor was comically humble, self-effacing to an extreme. But there was reality too. They had seen what they had seen. The old-timer had covered for them, exposing himself to the fast-triggered bullets of the drygulchers, daring death on their account.

  The crowning incongruity was the old man’s demeanor—so placid, so philosophical, so overpoweringly modest.

  “I don’t amount to nothin’,” he dolefully informed them. “Luke Sorley’s my handle, and I ain’t nothin’ but a wore-out old sodbuster with a wore-out wife and nine younguns that’s wearin’ us out. Ain’t got a dime to my name. Ain’t got nothin’ but trouble and strife and debts a’pilin’ up around my ears—but I don’t complain. All I ask is a chance to help my fellow man. That ain’t too much to ask, is it? Unselfish is what I am. I guess you could call me that. Plain unselfish, through and through.”

  Larry digested that speech in a stunned silence, after which he shook his head incredulously, and declared:

  “We’re sure beholden to you, Luke, on account of it looks like you saved our lives.”

  “Don’t thank me,” begged Luke. “I ain’t worth thankin’, because I don’t amount to nothin’. I’m just a wore-out old sodbuster with a ...”

  “You already said that,” frowned Stretch.

  “Oh, sure,” said Luke.

  He had volunteered his name. The Texans felt obliged to do likewise, and Luke’s eyes glowed.

  “Hey! You boys are Texan!”

  “Sure enough,” nodded Larry.

  “Well,” grinned Luke, “us poor Sorleys is from Alabama, but we sure do admire Texans, yes siree.”

  “If there’s anything we can ever do,” offered Larry, “to pay for helpin’ us ...”

  “Couldn’t ask you to do that!” Luke appeared shocked. “A favor is a favor. You don’t owe me nothin’—even though I saved your lives just now.” They should have been warned by the cunning gleam in his eyes. They might have been warned, had they noticed it. “But, come to think of it, there’s somethin’ you could do.”

  “Just name it,” urged Larry.

  “Come on home to our place,” begged Luke. “Have supper with us Sorleys. We ain’t got nothin’, but you can have half. That’s how we are, us Sorleys. Unselfish. Never thinkin’ of ourselves …”

  He was as persuasive as he knew how, and the Texans didn’t have it in their hearts to refuse him.

  And so, across the rock-littered rises and along dried-out arroyos, they rode stirrup-to-stirrup with their garrulous admirer. Luke described this roundabout route as a shortcut to his “hard-luck acres.” It was, of course, the slowest possible route, chosen for the sole purpose of giving Eli, Oley and Elmer ample time to reach the homestead ahead of them.

  Shooting was their one talent, something that came naturally. They had learned it from their eagle-eyed sire and, long before adolescence, had been able to hit any target, even the very smallest, at long range. Consequently, Luke hadn’t hesitated to position them atop the butte. He was confident that they would obey his orders with scrupulous care. The bullets would come close—but only so close. The shooting had begun at his signal. As the faces of the Lone Star Hellions had adorned many a frontier tabloid, Luke had managed to recognize them on sight. After that, it was only a matter of giving his trusty sons the high sign and then playing his own role in this stirring melodrama.

  In the twilight the residence of the Sorley clan presented a harrowing picture of disrepair, neglect and penury. The Texans, during almost two decades of drifting; had seen many a ramshackle homestead, but none to compare with this. A lethargic milk-cow was wandering about the front yard with two small children riding its back, another pulling its tail and a fourth scampering under its plodding hooves. Chickens strutted in and out of the house, clucking. Eli, Oley and Elmer were energetically chopping wood. The other children seemed to be here, there, everywhere.

  A thin, slack-jawed woman appeared in the kitchen doorway, lifted a hand in weary salute and mournfully announced:

  “Supper’s ready, Luke.”

  “We got company, Sheba,” grinned Luke. “Muster the younguns and line ’em up. You’re all gonna git interdooced to a couple fine Texas gentlemen. This here’s Larry Valentine and this here’s Stretch Emerson ...” The family assembled to be counted and identified, and the introductions continued. “That’s my woman—Sheba—best cook ever traveled outa Alabama. Them’s my eldest—Eli, Oley and Elmer. This’n’s Clara Lou. That’n’s Walter. No. That’s Walter—other one’s Wilbur. This here’s Mary Ellen ...”

  “You got it wrong,” Sheba Sorley sadly interjected. “She’s Alicia. The little un’s Mary Ellen.”

  “Well, I’ll be switched ...” Luke shrugged impatiently. “You ’spect me to ’member all their names?”

  It was, for Larry and Stretch, a never-to-be-forgotten supper and a unique experience. The food was austere. Black-eye peas, hominy grits and moldy cornbread. And there was very little of it, so little in fact that the Texans could barely believe their eyes. After Luke solemnly intoned the grace, they traded glances and stared incredulously at the pinched faces of the younger children—all of whom were eyeing them expectantly.

  “Is this,” Larry demanded, “all the food you got?”

  “That’s all of it,” nodded Luke. “But eat up, gents. We ain’t got nothin’, but we’re plumb hospitable—ain’t we, Sheba?”

  “Uh,” grunted Sheba.

  Maybe Luke Sorley had missed his true calling. As a theatrical director, he might have made a fortune. Certainly, his family had been well rehearsed and was performing as instructed. Sheba looked weary enough, hungry enough, to flop her head on the table and sleep for a week. The younger children stared fixedly at the food in the center of the table and stoically waited for the guests to help themselves. Oley showed the Texans a wan smile. Elmer said, apologetically: “You should excuse us for actin’ so hungry, but we only get to eat once a day.”

  “Once a day?” blinked Stretch.

  “At supper time,” sighed Oley.

  “Holy sufferin’ Hannah!” breathed Stretch. “Hey, runt ...!”

  “Do it,” growled Larry. “Go empty the saddlebags. Bring in all the chow.”

  “Hold on now, friends,” protested Luke, as Stretch rose from his chair. “I couldn’t let you ...!”

  “We got more than we can use, Luke,” said Larry. “Don’t argue with us. Doggone it, I never saw such hungry faces in all my born days.”

  “Times is hard for us Sorleys,” Eli explained.

  “Pow’ful hard,” mumbled Elmer. “Crops failed. We ain’t got enough water. Can’t raise one stick o’ corn on this burnt-out land.”

  “But,” Luke cheerfully assured Larry, “we still got our sense o’ humor. Still got that much.”<
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  Stretch was gone only a few moments. He returned with his arms laden, and the children squealed with delight as he piled two cans of beans, a slab of ham, a chunk of lard, a loaf of bread and a bottle of whiskey on to the table. Sheba, at a furtive gesture from her spouse, clasped her hands to her breast, and murmured:

  “Oh, my! It’s just too good to be true!”

  “It’s little enough for us to do, ma’am,” muttered Larry, “considerin’ Luke risked his hide for us a little while ago.”

  “That a fact, Pa?” prodded Oley.

  “It wasn’t nothin’, boys,” Luke modestly asserted. “Passel o’ drygulchers tried to ambush these here Texas friends o’ mine. I just lent ’em a hand is all.”

  “You could’ve got your head blowed off on our account,” declared Stretch, as he resumed his seat. He nodded to the food. “Go ahead, ma’am. Feed your younguns a man-sized supper.”

  Sheba needed no second bidding, and the gifts of the Texans were distributed with alacrity. Suddenly, Larry had lost his appetite. He settled for a mug of coffee and, while drinking it, queried the Sorleys as to their sorry predicament.

  “Ain’t no mystery to it,” shrugged Luke. “It happens to hunnerds o’ homesteaders. You claim on a piece o’ land and pray for water and the good Lord decides this ain’t your time—and that’s that.”

  “Be different,” opined Eli, “if we could stake us a claim to a hunk o’ that Carew Canyon land. That’d be prime land for farmin’.”

  “Durned if you ain't right, Eli,” agreed Luke. “There’d be an end to our grief and strife, if we won us one o’ them fine sections.”

  He talked on eagerly, telling Larry and Stretch of the government’s decision to organize a land-rush in Beck County. It became quite a speech, with the Texans interjecting only a few questions and, by the time Luke had explained the rules of the Commission in detail, he was breathless. Larry downed his coffee and offered his makings to the elder sons. They shook their heads. As he began building a smoke, he voiced what seemed a fair question.

  “If you Sorleys are so set on winnin’ a piece of canyon land, why don’t you sign your names and enter the race?”

  “That,” Eli assured him, “would be plain useless.”

  “There’ll be champeen hoss-riders in that race,” growled Oley.

  “Us Sorleys don’t own no fast hosses,” Luke explained, “and our wagon’d fall apart after the first hunnerd yards. What’s more, there never was a Sorley could ride worth a damn.”

  “Agin them cowpokes and all them others,” sighed Elmer, “we wouldn’t stand a chance—not a chance in this world.”

  “Only one way we’d ever own one o’ them Carew Canyon sections,” Luke declared. He took a deep breath, stared hard at his guests and played his trump card. “Only one way it could be done, boys. What I mean is if some good friend o’ mine—some feller that felt beholden to me for some reason or other—was to enter himself in that land-rush and tote a marker with my name on it and ride like all git-out and—and be in the first ten to hit that canyon. All he’d have to do is shove a stake in the boundary o’ one o’ them lots—and us Sorley’s’d have a new home, new land for the crops. We’d have us a future, by golly! We’d be saved!”

  And all eyes turned to the guests—two sturdy realists who knew when they were licked. Stretch fidgeted uncomfortably. Larry lit his cigarette, squinted at Luke through the smoke-haze and said exactly what was expected of him,„ while the Sorleys hung on his every word.

  “All right, Luke, you’ll get what you want. We’ll ride in that doggone race, and I guarantee you’ll own one of those prime sections.”

  Five – Mark of the Killer

  It had happened before and it was happening again—twice in the one day. Of course, Hattie Alden had not resorted to trickery, in order to win their support. She had merely paid their fine and stated her case. The decision had been their own. Could the same be said for Luke Sorley? Larry already had his doubts, but was more amused than indignant. Certainly, the Sorleys weren’t exaggerating their poverty. Such obvious destitution could never be pretense.

  A chorus of whoops was raised by Eli, Oley, Elmer and their elated sire. Sheba smiled shyly. The younger children screamed in sudden excitement and pounded the tabletop, until hushed by their mother.

  “All right, all right,” sighed Larry. “Let up on that hollerin’ and start tellin’ us the score. We’ll need to know a few more things, such as where we have to register for the rush, and all the rules and stuff.”

  “Why, sure.” Luke nodded eagerly. “Well, for a starter, there ain’t nothin’ unlegal ’bout you ridin’ for me. Lotsa riders’ll be representin’ folks that’s too old to ride for theirselves. You get your claim markers at the Land Office when you sign up. Then, all you gotta do is paint my name on the marker.”

  “How much time do we have?” demanded Larry.

  “Race starts nine o’clock Thursdee mornin’,” said Luke.

  “That’s day after tomorrow, runt,” mused Stretch.

  “Uh huh,” grunted Larry. “Well, we better be on our way. Gotta find a place to camp before midnight, and ...”

  “You’re welcome to bunk in the barn,” offered Luke. “Be glad to have you. And then you can head for town in the mornin’.”

  “All right,” Larry agreed. “I reckon that’ll do us.”

  They were sound asleep in the Sorley barn by the time Hattie returned to Bar A to face her angry sire. For five minutes the rancher growled reprimands and imparted dark warnings. She had, in his opinion, acted rashly. What had she to gain by enlisting the aid of two drifting Texans? He cared naught for their reputation and, should they show their faces on Bar A range, he would soon send them running.

  “All right, Dad,” she nodded. “But one thing you’d better understand. I do have confidence in Larry and Stretch. Call it a hunch if you will, but I think they’ll succeed where Sheriff Loomis failed. And, if they do ...”

  “If they do,” shrugged Alden, “I’ll pay ’em off. The whole two thousand—and no arguments. But you mind what I say, Hattie. Don’t expect too much from ’em.”

  Early next morning—a full thirty minutes before sunrise—Larry shook Stretch awake and quietly announced:

  “We’re movin’ out right away.”

  “It’s still dark,” mumbled the taller Texan.

  “We’ll hit town in daylight,” Larry assured him. “And I don’t want to be here when Luke’s woman starts fixin’ breakfast. Could you eat—with those skinny kids watchin’ you?”

  “Nary a crumb,” sighed Stretch.

  Larry left a farewell note stuck to the barn ladder. They saddled up, swung astride and nudged their mounts from the barn, to begin the two-hour ride to the settlement.

  They dawdled their horses into Becksburg’s main stem just as the town was coming alive and took time to patrol a goodly section of it, familiarizing themselves with all points of interest—with the emphasis on saloons.

  Uptown, the shingle of a horse-dealer caught their eyes and, like homing pigeons, they advanced on it. If they were to make a new friend in this town, who better than Brazos McMasters, proprietor of the Lone Star Corral? McMasters, it transpired, dealt in horses of all kinds, as well as running a livery stable. He was tall, lean, ugly and as Texan as the river for which he’d been nicknamed.

  His greeting was laconic, but amiable. As they reined up beside the corral, he emerged from the cabin beside the barn, garbed in red undershirt, battered Stetson and patched blue jeans. His stubbled countenance wrinkled in a grin.

  “They don’t breed ’em so tall,” he drawled, “any place else but Texas. Cool your saddles, boys.”

  The drifters dismounted, shook McMasters’ hand and gave their names. Stretch produced a bottle and enquired: “Too early in the day for you, Brazos?”

  To which Brazos retorted:

  “What kind of a damn fool question is that?”

  The three expatriates climbed to a top rail
of the corral, squatted and passed the bottle from hand to hand. Wiping his mouth with the back of a hairy paw, Brazos asked: “What brings you hombres to Becksburg?”

  “A killin’.” Larry put it simply. “You likely heard of what happened to a feller name of Weaver the other day. Well, his cousin Hattie looked us up in Chestnut Creek and asked us to buy in.”

  “You aim to do that?” prodded Brazos.

  “Aim to find out,” Larry assured him, “just who gunned Weaver—and why.”

  “Might turn out to be a rough chore,” mused Brazos. “Way I hear it, that’s a real genuine mystery. Sheriff ain’t gettin’ noplace. O’ course, that don’t mean nothin’, seem’ as how Ed Loomis ain’t the smartest badge-toter this side of the Rockies.”

  “You heard anything new about it?” asked Larry. “Nary a word.” Brazos raised a finger, pointed. “Look there.”

  Larry and Stretch followed Brazos’ gesture. A hearse was rumbling out of a side street and moving south toward the edge of town.

  “Weaver?” prodded Larry.

  “On his last ride,” nodded Brazos. “Funeral’s gonna be private. Out to the family cemetery on Bar A range. Real sad, amigos. Del Weaver was a likeable jasper. Son of Clem Alden’s dead sister, you know?” He took another pull at the bottle and began pointing out other locals of note. “There goes Ed Loomis now—him in his Sundee-best. Guess he’ll be ridin’ out for the buryin’, pay his respects. And here comes Doc Drew. Looks like Doc’s stoppin’ by Piper’s eatery. Hap Piper serves good grub, if you’re interested.”

  “Ol’ Larry and me,” grinned Stretch, “are always interested in grub. Any kind.”

  “Any way I can help you hombres,” offered Brazos, “all you gotta do is ask. Only one thing I couldn’t do for you. Couldn’t rent you a hoss to ride in that doggone race. Every fast hoss I own got grabbed muy pronto—couple minutes after Lucius Gifford started spreadin’ the big news.”

  “Brazos,” frowned Larry, “we aim to tote a stake in that race. Sodbuster name of Sorley kind of hired us.”

  “Luke Sorley?” Brazos blinked incredulously. “You gotta be joshin’ me! He couldn’t hire nobody for nothin’, not to save his cotton-pickin’ soul he couldn’t. He’s been broke for as long as I can recall.”